


in this life (and the next)

by themarvelousmaize



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Curse Breaking, Deja Vu, Flashbacks, Geralt wanting love and feeling like he doesn’t deserve it, Hurt/Comfort, I promise you it's very temporary no one stays dead, Jaskier showing him the error of his ways, Loving and Being Loved, M/M, Multiple Lifetimes, Multiple Time Periods, Non-Explicit Sex, Reincarnation, Self-Worth Issues, Temporary Character Death, True Love, With A Twist, more of a fade to black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26110054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themarvelousmaize/pseuds/themarvelousmaize
Summary: The overly talkative theatre actor with the brilliant blue eyes and the quicksilver grin can’t seem to stop coming into Geralt’s bar. Now, if only Geralt can figure out why Jaskier looks so familiar.In which Geralt and Jaskier keep meeting and falling in love over multiple lifetimes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 136
Kudos: 589





	in this life (and the next)

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the phrase “in this life or the next” from Warrior Nuns on Netflix (highly recommend if you haven’t watched it.)
> 
> Thanks to [inkinhart](https://inkinhart.tumblr.com) for being truly the most wonderful beta. Not only for reading and fixing some embarrassing grammar and spelling mistakes, but also for being truly a creative partner in this, letting me bounce off ideas on story flow and key milestones, and challenging me to step out of my comfort zone in writing the ending.

“Uh, hello. You’re not Priscilla.”

Geralt raises a single eyebrow. The man in front of him is leaning both elbows on the bar, huge blue eyes bright and a dazzling smile on his face. There’s a string of different-shaped studs lining both of his ears. Probably one of Priscilla’s regulars. She has a fair number of those. “Evidently,” says Geralt, tone bone-dry. The man’s grin widens. “She’s not working tonight.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t seem too put out by this news. Maybe he’s not just a customer here to flirt with the pretty blonde bartender. “She's okay though, right?”

There’s genuine concern in the crease of his brow. Another surprise. “She’s fine. Can I get you anything?”

“If I ask for a glass of Chardonnay will I seem less cool?”

Geralt bites down on his bottom lip to stop it from twitching upwards. “No less cool than coming to a dive bar dressed like…” he gestures at Blue Eyes’... everything. Sequin shirt. Tight neon pants. Necklace with a flower pressed into resin - “that.”

“Hey, be nice to me. I just got out of a show.”

“Hm. Planning on hitting up a rave later?” The bar is packed to the gills tonight. Not unusual for a Saturday, which is why Geralt prefers scheduling his employees for this shift. Better chance for tips.

Blue Eyes laughs and makes himself more comfortable on the bar stool, seemingly unbothered by the crowd building behind him. “Better than being dressed like I’m going to a funeral.”

Geralt gives his all black outfit a cursory once-over as he grabs a wine glass from the shelf. “It’s the uniform.”

“The uniform?” Blue Eyes says, comically aghast. “No offense, but that sounds fake. I come here _every_ Saturday and I don’t see Priscilla wearing all black.”

Every Saturday. Geralt files that information away for reasons he can’t even begin to describe. Out loud he states, “she’s supposed to.”

“What, are you gonna tattle to the owner?”

“You’re looking at him.” Geralt slides the glass of wine with a grin that shows off his canines. “Your Chardonnay.”

Blue Eyes takes the glass, not frazzled in the least. “Thanks!” he says, bright. “I’m Jaskier by the way.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier cocks his head with an indulgent smile. “Does the brooding owner with the suspiciously early onset white hair have a _name_? And is that natural or do you, like, dye it? Either way, let me tell you, it _works_ -”

“Geralt.” It’s out before he can help himself, which never happens. Geralt doesn’t introduce himself to customers. Ever. He can _feel_ Lambert’s amused stare on him as he works his side of the bar. He doesn’t say anything, although Geralt has an inkling that will probably change as soon as the shift is over. Or when he manages to sneak a text to Eskel and Renfri in the group chat they have going on. Whichever comes first.

Jaskier stretches a hand - decked with golden rings - across the bar. They twinkle even in the muted lighting. “It’s nice to meet you, Geralt.”

There’s something vaguely familiar about the way their hands slide together; in the press of those calloused fingertips against his own. _Guitar,_ Geralt thinks instinctively, _or a lute_ , which is absurd, because Geralt’s pretty sure he has no idea what the fuck a lute even _is_.

The question “Have we met before?” springs from Geralt’s lips unbidden. A disconcerting pattern it seems when it comes to Jaskier.

The man just smiles over the rim of his wine glass. It makes the corners of his eyes crinkle a little, even though he doesn’t look a day over twenty-five. Geralt hears _the crow’s feet are new_ in his mind in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Yennefer’s. He ignores the pang in his gut at the thought of Yen.

“If we did, don’t you think you’d remember me?” Jaskier replies softly, serious for the time since he waltzed into Geralt’s bar.

Geralt gives a noncommittal hum. He ignores the faint whispers tugging at his mind and gets back to work serving his other customers. It’s probably nothing.

“‘Have we met before?’” Lambert parrots back at him under his breath, amused. “Is that really the best you can do?”

“Shut up,” says Geralt, even as his face flames up. Jaskier’s probably going to be gone soon, he tells himself. This will soon just be an unfortunate blip in his life.

Jaskier stays firmly perched atop his bar stool for the rest of the evening. Geralt tries not to think about that.

***

_“Geraaaaalt,” Jaskier whines, “Geralt my legs are about to give out. Melitele mark my words I will collapse this very second if we don’t stop -”_

_“You’re fine, Jaskier,” Geralt says, interrupting him, even as he tugs on Roach’s reins to slow her down._

_“Easy for you to say, comfortably perched atop your horse,” Jaskier grumbles as he follows the witcher to the side of the road._

_Geralt dismounts and sends him a bemused glance. “Roach can’t carry both of us,” then, more devastatingly, “and you were riding her the last two hours.”_

_Jaskier waves him off. “You forget, dear witcher, that I have a delicate disposition that must be accounted for at all times,” he says around a devilish grin. One Geralt can’t help but reciprocate. Gods help him._

_“You mean you’re lazy, bard.”_

_Jaskier lets his mouth drop open in mock outrage. Geralt’s grin gets wider. “Slander! I won’t stand for it. My honor demands retribution this instant.”_

_Geralt crowds Jaskier. “Is that so?” So close, he can smell the instant Jaskier’s scent starts spiking with arousal._

_“Yes,” says Jaskier, although his voice has gone a little breathless. He blinks huge blue eyes at Geralt in the way that makes Geralt’s stomach clench. “I’m quite upset, you see.”_

_Geralt hums. Roach, very much used to their antics and sensing what’s to come, has wisely wandered ahead into the field to graze. “I guess I’ll have to fix that,” the witcher says, and snakes an arm around Jaskier, pulling him close._

_“Is this better?” Geralt rumbles, nosing along Jaskier’s throat. The bard huffs weakly, hands already clutching the laces of Geralt’s jerkin._

_“Mhm, a little. You’ll have to do better than that. I’m still so very mad,” he says, with no real heat. The blue of his irises are swallowed up by black._

_“I know.” Geralt bites lightly at the juncture of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder, soothing it over with his tongue. Against him, Jaskier shivers. “Let me make it up to you.”_

_“Do your best, witcher.” Jaskier laughs when Geralt bears him down to the ground._

***

Geralt helps himself to a generous pot of coffee, stifling a yawn. He’d been up until the ass-crack of dawn last night, manning the bar. The clock on the coffee machine reads 8:05.

Eskel and Renfri are already in their shared office space, poring intently over financials and laptops and schedules. Sunday mornings, as per their usual custom, is to review budget and profits and create a shift schedule for the upcoming week. “So nice of you to finally join us, Geralt,” Renfri greets.

“Fuck off,” says Geralt, eloquent as ever. He takes the only other empty seat at the functional, rectangular table and fires up his own MacBook.

“How was the bar last night?” Eskel asks.

“Fine. Busy. Decent tips,” He narrows his eyes over the rim of his coffee mug, his sleep-addled mind finally catching up. “Why? What did Lambert say?”

“So something happened worth talking about?”

“Just spit it out, Eskel.”

“Oh you know, just the usual,” Renfri says, injecting false casualness in her tone. “Except apparently there was a cute guy you kept chatting up? Ringing any bells for you?”

“I wasn’t chatting him up,” says Geralt, even as his ears start to burn.

“So he was cute?” Eskel says at the same time as Renfri asks, “Really? What do you call ‘ _have we met before_?’” Renfri does a pretty decent job of imitating Geralt’s lower register before guffawing. “Seriously, Geralt? That’s the most overplayed come-on in the history of the world!”

Geralt glares. “Lambert’s fired.”

“Oh loosen up, Geralt,” Eskel laughs, patting his shoulder companionably. “We’re just teasing. After everything with Yen, it’s good to see you put yourself out there. You should ask him out.”

Geralt hums again, trying to grope for words but finding none. His eyes involuntarily stray over to the schedule. Pulled like a moth to flame, he keeps coming back to the Saturday shift, tracing over the words over and over again.

***

 _“How did you even manage to_ do _this?” Geralt asks, eyeing the stage with poorly concealed disbelief. The raised wooden platform, supported by thick pillars, has a hole going clean through the floorboard. There’s shards of wood scattered around the suspiciously foot-sized hole._

_Jaskier shrugs, a wide and unrepentant smile on his face. It tugs at something deep inside of Geralt. He squashes it down resolutely and turns his focus back on the broken floorboard. “I’m an inspired playwright, and an even more enthusiastic actor, Geralt. Surely you know that by now,” Jaskier replies._

_“Unfortunately,” says Geralt, wry. “What did you do?”_

_“I didn’t_ do _anything besides apply the regular vigor that comes with being an artist that takes their craft seriously,” Jaskier scoffs. A lock of brown hair falls into his eyes as he speaks. Geralt’s fingers twitch, aching to just go up and brush it out of Jaskier’s face._

_Fuck. He needs to get a grip._

_“Hmm.” He angles his head towards Essi. “And what’s the truth?”_

_Geralt laughs low under breath when Jaskier squawks indignantly. “Well I never -”_

_“He stomped around a bit too enthusiastically and his foot went clean through the floorboard,” Essi cuts in, grinning._

_Jaskier shoots her a dirty glare. There’s a flush building high on his cheekbones, matching nicely with the vermillion breeches he wears. “Traitor,” he says with no bite. Doe eyes land on Geralt once more._

_Jaskier catches his bottom lip beneath his teeth, the faint signs of worry creasing his lovely brow. “Do you think you can get it fixed today, Geralt? I wouldn’t normally ask for such a quick turnaround, but you see we have it on good authority that the Queen is going to come watch our production this eve. Can you believe it? The Queen herself_ here, _at the Globe!”_

_“I can believe it.” It’s said without a shred of irony or sarcasm, because it’s true. He’s known Jaskier only a handful of months at this point and yet his talent - his ability to spin haunting tales of love and loss - is undeniable. Geralt leans forward, inspecting the hole once more, assessing and cataloging the extent of the damage. “I’ll have this fixed in a couple of hours.”_

_Jaskier visibly melts in relief at the declaration. “Oh, praise the Lord. Thank you, thank you, thank you Geralt. I’ll pay you triple your usual fee - well,” he amends when Essi forcefully shakes her head, “maybe double and a glass of my best brandy as thanks - and seats for tonight’s show, for you and darling little Cirilla both -”_

_“The usual fee is fine, Jaskier,” says Geralt. He hoists his pack higher on his shoulder, thankful that he’s packed more than strictly necessary. Suffice to say that all of his carpentry jobs at the theatre have been more and more creative since Jaskier’s production company took over performances. “How’s your foot?”_

_Jaskier waves him off, even as he takes a seat on the floor not too far from Geralt, watching him work. “Oh, it’s fine. Nothing I haven’t done to myself before, believe me. As an artist, I must suffer for my craft, you see, otherwise it will be flat and dull and boring. But you’re a darling for asking.” His voice drops lower, coaxing and teasing. “It’s almost like you_ care _, Geralt.”_

_Geralt snorts, pointedly looking at the floor. “I don’t.”_

_“Mmm.”_

_Jaskier just lets it sit there, the silence between them deep and meaningful. They both know Geralt is full of shit - even if Jaskier, in a surprising show of grace, doesn’t call him out on it. Geralt doesn’t understand how the actor-cum-playwright knows him so well; how he knows Jaskier like they’ve been in each other’s lives for decades._

_It’s disarming and disquieting, and Geralt snorts, trying to push those feelings aside. “You need to be more careful,” he grunts. “I won’t always be there to save your cocky ass.”_

_Jaskier smiles, small and fond and a little sad. “Yes you will,” he murmurs with a certainty that settles deep in Geralt’s bones, “You’ve never been able to resist coming to my rescue.”_

***

Geralt’s not really sure why, but when he does the schedule for the week he slots himself in for the Saturday shift. _It’s a busy night_ , he reassures himself. _The bartenders might need backup_. Never mind that Priscilla and Lambert have been doing this shit for years and they’ve never needed backup the last hundred Saturdays. Technicalities.

Pointedly ignoring Priscilla’s somewhat confused expression and Lambert’s knowing one, Geralt slides behind the bar and pulls his hair up in a bun. “Uniform’s all black, Pri,” he mutters after he spots the colorful tee.

“Too much black is _boring_ , Geralt,” Priscilla says cheerily over her shoulder as she serves a customer.

Jesus. Is talking back one of Renfri’s requirements when she hires their staff? Geralt reaches into the cupboard where they hold their merch and pushes a rolled up black t-shirt into Priscilla’s hands. “Change. Now.”

“Buzzkill,” Priscilla sticks her tongue out at him but nonetheless complies, pulling the black shirt over her head.

Geralt spots a customer flagging him down and takes his order. “Interesting way to talk to your boss,” he drawls.

“You love it, honey. Don’t lie,” Priscilla retorts and blows him a kiss.

Geralt just hums. The bar gets pretty busy after that and the chatter basically stops, unless it’s Priscilla working her charms on her regulars or Lambert engaging in some casual chit-chat, and Geralt just sort of sinks into the shift. He likes this work. Methodical, routine, no pomp or circumstance. No curveballs.

“I mean this with all the love I have for you, boo, but what in the ever loving _fuck_ are you wearing?”

 _Fuck_. Geralt nearly drops a pint glass. He hears Prisiclla’s long-suffering - and unnecessarily dramatic, in Geralt’s very objective opinion - sigh as she replies. “Ugh. Don’t ask, Jaskier. It’s just my boss being a hard-ass.”

“Your boss is right here.” He’s pleased that his hand doesn’t shake when he pours out a draft.

Jaskier brightens, a huge grin spreading on his face. “Geralt!” he says, his excitement so palpable it disarms him. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever been so openly _thrilled_ to see him. “You’re here.”

“I do own the place,” Geralt says, because sarcasm is a shield he knows he can hide behind.

“Oh, I remember you mentioning it once or twice” Jaskier props both elbows on the bar and pillows his chin in his palms. “Can the owner fix me up a drink?” He dares to flutter his eyelashes and bite his bottom lip as he asks.

Geralt’s mouth runs dry. “What can I get you?” He tries to ignore the prickle of heat in the back of his neck.

“A classic martini, pretty please?”

It’s a relatively easy drink to make. Geralt’s about to slide it over to Jaskier when Priscilla points out, “You made it with a twist, Geralt.”

He glances at her, faintly amused. “I know. And?”

“ _And_ I paid attention during that two day training you insisted on setting up when Aiden and I got hired,” Priscilla says. “A classic martini has olives. You have to redo it.”

“Jaskier doesn’t like olives,” Geralt says automatically, confidently, and then blinks.

Priscilla looks similarly bewildered. “How did you _know_ that? _I_ didn’t even know that.”

Geralt’s brain, to his horror, appears to have completely short-circuited. How _did_ he know that?

“Maybe _you_ should be paying better attention to me, Pri. No offense,” Jaskier, thankfully, cuts in, plucking the martini from Geralt’s outstretched hand. He takes a sip. “Delicious. Thank you, darling.”

“Offense _very much_ taken, thank you,” says Priscilla. There’s a patron signaling to her. “I’m walking away before you permanently damage our relationship, Jask.”

Jaskier waggles his fingers at her in an exaggerated wave. “Love you too, boo!” he calls out after her.

Geralt shakes his head, half in awe, half in exhaustion. He catches Jaskier looking at him strangely, something wistful in those blue eyes. “What?” he asks, more defensive than he means to be.

“Nothing.” Jaskier laughs awkwardly. He keeps spinning one of the golden rings on his fingers. “Lucky guess on the olive thing though, huh?”

“Yeah. Lucky,” Geralt echoes, feeling like he’s being given an out. His insides twist. He gestures to the ever-growing crowd with a rueful smile. “I should get back to work.”

“Well that’s just unacceptable,” Jaskier says. “If I ask you to make me something else, will you stay?”

There’s a smile tugging Geralt’s lips upwards before he can help himself. “You have to finish the drink in front of you first.”

“Done.” Jaskier, incredibly, downs the whole martini in one go. His right eye is screwed shut as he slams his glass back down on the bar. “ _Whew_! I actually felt that in my soul. That’s gonna stay with me. Now, good sir,” Jaskier proclaims, eyes sparkling with mirth. “About that other drink.”

Geralt laughs. “You’re gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.”

“Don’t give a fuck. Not if it means I get to spend time with you.” Jaskier says it so earnestly it leaves Geralt momentarily breathless. “Please get me that other martini before I die of thirst, Geralt.”

Geralt rolls his eyes but fixes him the drink. “Pace yourself,” he says, handing Jaskier the martini along with a glass of water.

Jaskier waves him off. “Never heard of such a thing. Anyway, let me tell you about the fucking show I just had today. There’s this actor in my company, Valdo Marx, who is, I kid you not, the biggest, dumbest dickweed _ever_ -”

It occurs to Geralt, as he listens to Jaskier regale him with tales of the trials and tribulations of being a theatre actor, that he should fight this; that he might not deserve this. It’s his fault things didn’t work out with Yennefer, the one person who had jagged edges similar to his own. If he couldn’t make that relationship work, what hope is there for him? He’s too broken, too ugly inside. Nothing like Jaskier, who is laughter and sunshine and smiles. Geralt really should do them both the favor by stopping this now.

But Jaskier keeps talking; keeps pulling smiles and low laughs out of Geralt; keeps ordering drinks, although he smartly switches from the martinis to vodka sprites, which Geralt loads up with more sprite than vodka. Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice.

Geralt keeps listening, skin warming all over the way it does when he’s spent too long in the shade before stepping back into sunlight.

He’s never been good at staying away.

***

_Ciri watches with barely concealed amusement as Geralt packs his leather satchel to the gills with his carpentry tools. “Going to the theatre again?” she asks knowingly._

_Geralt grunts, noncommittal._

_“You should bring Jaskier that bottle of wine you’ve been saving. Maybe you can share it after you fix whatever Jaskier’s purposefully broken so he can get you over -”_

_“Cirilla.”_

_Ciri raises her hands in mock surrender with_ way _too much mischievousness for a ten-year-old. “_ Fine _. Say hello to Jaskier for me.”_

_Geralt doesn’t reply, but he does pack the bottle of wine._

_“Do you break things on purpose?” he asks Jaskier later as they both sit with legs dangling from the stage._

_Jaskier nearly chokes on his wine and turns the loveliest shade of pink._

***

Geralt permanently slots himself for the Saturday shift.

“Damn, you really want that dick, don’t you?” Renfri says, delighted.

He endures a truly endless amount of teasing from her, Eskel, and their staff.

***

“Do you work any other shift?” Jaskier asks him a month later.

“Tuesday,” says Geralt quickly. Maybe too quickly. The tips of his ears redden.

Jaskier just smiles a secret smile.

When he shows up the next Tuesday for happy hour, Geralt tries to ignore the way his heart starts to race.

***

“No,” Geralt says flatly as soon as he spots Jaskier waltzing into the bar.

Jaskier’s expression looks comically crestfallen. “I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“You’re not bringing a guitar into my bar, Jaskier.”

“Oh come on, I just want to play you one little song. Just _oooone,_ itty bitty little song,” wheedles Jaskier. He has the nerve to make his blue eyes go wide and pleading, sticking out his reddened bottom lip.

There’s suddenly a whole lot less blood flowing to Geralt’s head and his black jeans grow a little tight. He averts his gaze. “Fine,” he grunts. Next to Geralt, Lambert coughs to hide a laugh.

Jaskier flashes pearly white teeth and props himself on the bar stool, crossing one leg over the other as he does. “You won’t regret this, I promise.” He swings his guitar around. It’s covered in stickers - Geralt spots a pride flag, a solar system, the words “I’m not bossy, I’m the boss,” and a buttercup decal, among others.

Typical. It pulls a smile from Geralt nonetheless.

Jaskier strums a note or two and Geralt’s ear twitches - it sounds vaguely familiar. Maybe Jaskier is about to sing a cover?

Instead he merrily belts out, “Tip your barkeep a fiver - twenty percent, please, oh twenty percent, please, oh oh ohhh...”

“ _Please_ ,” Geralt interrupts, the tips of his ears red. “Stop.”

“I don’t know, Geralt. We could always use more tips,” Lambert says, wiping his hands with a towel.

“Not like this.” He motions for Jaskier to hand over the guitar. Jaskier pouts, but complies nonetheless. “You can have this back when you leave.”

Jaskier sticks his tongue out. “Spoilsport,” he says. “You didn’t like it then?”

Geralt stalls, mind going horribly blank. His mouth twists and he looks up at Jaskier guiltily. “Uh -”

He’s met with only kindness and a soft, knowing smile. “It’s okay,” Jaskier says with a sparkle in his eye. “You didn’t like it the first time either.”

 _What?_ “What?”

Jaskier leans over the bar, inspecting the array of bottles closely. “Ooooh, you’ve got Rumchata! Geralt, Geralt, Geralt. Do you know how to make a Cinnamon Toast Crunch shot and can I _pleaaaase_ have one right now?”

***

_Jaskier’s performing tonight._

_Geralt tries not to pay attention to how good Jaskier looks up on the stage, and busies himself waiting on the tables of writers, painters, and other creative types packing the club._

_Clouds of billowing cigarette smoke make everything look a little hazy. Except Jaskier, who is crisp and sharp and clear. His aquamarine three-piece suit matches the fedora perched jauntily atop his head and makes the blue of his eyes come alive. He’s at the piano this time, a microphone hooked above it. On either side of him are a guitarist and a saxophone player._

_“Good evening, most distinguished guests,” he drawls, voice like honey. “We’ve got quite the set planned for you tonight, so just sit back, relax, and don’t forget to tip your excellent waiters. They do supply the booze after all.” Jaskier sends a jaunty wink Geralt’s way. Geralt pretends not to notice and hands a table their order. He’s tipped handsomely. He always is, on the nights Jaskier plays._

_Geralt only listens to the music with half an ear. He’s worked enough shifts to know all of their songs by now. Most of them are about pretty flapper girls and champagne flutes made of diamonds and how it’s 1924 and a wonderful time to be alive. All fluff and no substance, designed to please a drunken, rowdy crowd._

_The tempo suddenly slows and Jaskier lets out a haunting, melodic croon. Geralt glances over at the stage. Jaskier’s eyes are closed, eyebrows furrowed a little, completely engrossed in his music. Geralt shuffles over to the bar quicker._

_Once in a while though, they’ll throw in a song so filled with heartbreak and yearning, love and loss, that it knocks Geralt sideways. Jaskier is at his most enthralling during those performances. He loses that bit of pompous flair, strips himself down to the basics. It’s real, genuine, vulnerable._

_“What did you think?” Jaskier asks him later. It’s three in the morning and the club is empty of anyone but the staff and the band. “Three words or less.”_

_“You_ always _ask me that,” Geralt says, wiping down the bar._

_“Because I take your feedback very seriously, Geralt. You’re not one to hold back. Does absolute wonders for the ego.” Jaskier is grinning as he speaks, perched on one of the bar stools, doing absolutely nothing at all except watching Geralt and the other waitstaff clean up._

_Geralt just hums. “It was...okay,” he says, and tries not to wince at how clumsy he sounds. Words have never been easy for him._

_“Okay?” Jaskier echoes with poorly concealed disbelief. His suit jacket is on the back of his chair, his tie loosened. The first three buttons of his dress shirt are undone, affording a view of the expanse of downy chest hair underneath. Geralt does his best not to stare._

_“I liked the last song,” he says. He wants to say more. Wants to ask who it was that Jaskier loved so wholly, where they were, why weren’t they here with Jaskier right now, and didn’t they realize how lucky they were, to be loved by someone like Jaskier?_

_None of that comes out, the words caught in a web inside Geralt’s throat. Instead, he says, “I like when you sing about...things. Real things.”_

_It’s not exactly what he wants to say, but it seems to work, because Jaskier’s answering smile is so bright Geralt swears it actually lights up the room. “Geralt, that might actually be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Are you sure you’re okay?” Jaskier teases. He moves to press the back of his hand to Geralt’s forehead._

_Geralt swats him away, a bewildering mix of annoyed and amused. “Stop.”_

_“Ugh, fine, no need to be a brute. But seriously, we have to commemorate this momentous occasion-”_

_“A compliment is a momentous occasion?”_

_“Hush, I’m not done talking. Let’s go out for a drink. The night is young, after all.”_

_“It’s four in the morning, Jaskier.”_

_“Well then the_ day _is young, no need to be so crotchety. What do you say?” Jaskier sounds almost nervous, fingers knotting and unknotting themselves over and over again, which is hilarious, because this isn’t the first time he’s asked Geralt this either. “A nice drink between friends.”_

_Geralt turns around to slot the bottle of liquor back into its spot on the shelf. “We’re not friends,” he says gruffly._

_Most people would balk and wither at such a blatant rejection. Jaskier, Geralt has come to understand over and over again, is not most people. He takes the blow in stride._

_“No need to_ lie _, Geralt, saying you’re too old to enjoy this city’s wondrous nightlife is a perfectly acceptable response. How about you make us a drink here then?” Jaskier suggests, spreading fingers onto the bar and blinking big blue eyes in a way that’s clearly meant to be enticing._

_It is. Fuck._

_Geralt feels his mouth curve. “Fine. What would you like?”_

_“A martini. With a twist, if you please. I can’t stand olives.”_

_Geralt makes two and pushes one over to Jaskier. Jaskier smiles, pleased, when Geralt stretches his forearms on the bar, ring-rimmed fingers idly trailing down the stem of his glass._

_“Cheers,” says Jaskier, lifting up his drink, “to you complimenting my singing. I didn’t think the day would ever come.”_

_“Don’t get used to it,” Geralt says, but his mouth is still curved and they clink glasses. He takes a sip of the martini; watches beneath his eyelashes as Jaskier does the same._

_“You know Geralt, you can push me away all you like,” Jaskier comments idly, setting his glass back down. There’s a small flush spreading across his cheeks. “It won’t work. I’ll wear you down.”_

_“What makes you think that?”_

_Jaskier twirls his jacket between his fingers, hooking it over his back. “Oh, just that I’ve done it a few times before.”_

***

“Do you know that cute little thrift shop two doors down?” Jaskier asks.

“There’s a thrift shop?” Geralt says at the same time Priscilla replies, “Oh, yeah! The Chameleon, right?”

“Yeah!” Jaskier says, pointing an index finger at Geralt. “And _you_ , my silver-haired friend, are hopeless.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and goes back to tending bar, only half paying attention to Jaskier’s ramblings. “Pri, I’m telling you, they have this totally cute little vintage brooch in there. It’s got, like, this wolf’s head on it with little flowers and -” Geralt sets a freshly made vodka sprite in front of Jaskier before the other man even asks about it, “oh, thank you, Geralt.”

He just hums in response and leaves to help another customer.

***

_Geralt ends up relenting and taking Jaskier up on his offer for drinks several days later._

_The smile Jaskier gives him when he says yes settles like a hot brand at the base of his spine._

_“Trust me Geralt, I am going to show you the most amazing time,” Jaskier promises._

_He does._

***

“I had the _worst_ thing happen to me yesterday, Geralt,” Jaskier informs him some odd weeks later, perched on his regular chair at the bar.

Geralt just grunts. It’s Tuesday, so it’s not as busy. Jaskier plows on, unbothered, “I’d seen the _funniest_ thing and thought, ‘hey, you know who’d enjoy this?’”

“Priscilla?” Geralt says, wry.

Jaskier ignores him. “I thought, ‘gee Geralt would probably share a laugh with me over this, let me text it to him’ and I realized - I didn’t have your number!” his eyes are wide, eyebrows high up on his forehead, looking truly like this is the most offensive and unacceptable thing to have ever happened to him.

“Oh no,” deadpans Geralt, but he’s grinning.

“Yes, my reaction exactly! We _have_ to fix this right away.” Jaskier fishes his phone out of his pocket and opens the keypad. He hands it to Geralt, and demands, “Your digits. Gimme ‘em.”

Geralt, as he’s come to find out, is rather unable to deny Jaskier anything. He ignores the voice in the back of his head that whispers he shouldn’t get to have this, and types in his number.

Later, much later, when his phone vibrates as he closes up the bar with Lambert’s help, Geralt lets out a low chuckle when he checks it.

[ **Jaskier, 2:30am** ]: * _a picture of a row of stuffed toys with a puppy at the far back. It’s captioned: He thinks he has to wait in line to get a treat.*_

[ **Jaskier, 2:30am** ]: This dog is now my son.

[ **Geralt, 2:32am** ]: I’ll have treats ready for him.

[ **Jaskier, 2:35am** ]: *kissing emoji* I knew I could count on you.

***

_Geralt slams the door shut. “What the fuck’s your problem, Jaskier?”_

_“My problem?_ My problem _?” Jaskier repeats in a voice that climbs steadily in volume. He’s trembling all over as he moves about their room, tugging out of his doublet in rough, jerky movements. “Tell me, O Master witcher, in your most discerning and humble opinion, did this evening’s conversation with Lord What’s-His-Face go well? Was there nothing that you said that would hurt my feelings? Or did you think it was all perfectly fine and dandy?”_

_Geralt’s nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you have something to say, just say it.”_

_“Of course you don’t,” Jaskier laughs, but there’s no humor behind it. The air turns heavy with the tangy smell of copper. Hurt. There’s a frisson of alarm that snakes down Geralt’s spine._

_“Jaskier -” He takes a step towards the bard, who retreats, to Geralt’s dismay._

_All the anger seems to have been snuffed out of Jaskier, replaced by weariness and grief. His shoulders sag; his head hangs low. “You introduced me as your friend, Geralt,” Jaskier croaks out. “Worse, actually. When the lord asked you what the nature of our relationship was, you said and I quote ‘the bard is my travel companion.’ Is that all I am to you then?”_

_“_ Of course _not,” Geralt snaps, guilt and anger and the desire to wipe the stench of pain from Jaskier’s scent all swirling together in his gut. His fingers flex helplessly at his side._

 _“Then why? Are you ashamed of me? You wouldn’t be the first to feel that way you know,” says Jaskier in a voice so startlingly broken it makes every single fiber in Geralt’s being rebel inside of him. “I would just like you to have the decency to_ say _it.”_

_“No, that’s not it, I - you’re important to me, Jaskier.”_

_Jaskier’s bottom lip quivers. “That doesn’t answer my question, Geralt.”_

_“You’re important to me,” Geralt repeats through clenched teeth, struggling to find the right words, “and witchers don’t get to have people who are important to them. We’re supposed to be alone. If someone found out who you are to me and tried to - to get to me through you - if something happened to you because of me -” he chokes, bites his tongue, and closes his eyes._

_There are cool fingers pressed to his cheeks, and Geralt opens his eyes to find himself drowning in deep wells of blue. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m okay, darling. I’m okay,” murmurs Jaskier._

_Geralt’s heart twists. “I just want to keep you safe. I_ need _you to be safe.”_

_“I want to be safe too. I really, really do, believe me,” says Jaskier. “But keeping me at arm’s length is not the same as keeping me safe, Geralt.”_

_Geralt’s throat clenches up. He thinks,_ I don’t want to lose you _. He thinks,_ nothing is worth losing you _._

_He says nothing; just winds his arms around Jaskier’s waist and buries his nose in the crook of his neck._

_***_

_“You and the bard are quite close,” a Skelligan countess comments idly a season’s turn later. Geralt turns his focus away from Jaskier, who is performing in the center of the great hall. The countess is looking at him with shrewd green eyes._

_Swallowing back bile, Geralt says, “as close as friends who travel together are.”_

_“That’s it then? Just friends?” One of her copper eyebrows rises._

_He looks back at Jaskier. His matching doublet and trousers are embroidered in rich hues of pink, blue, and purple. The protective medallion Geralt’s carved for him is nestled proudly at his throat. Jaskier catches his eye and his smile sweetens the way it does whenever he picks Geralt out of a crowd._

_“Yes,” he replies, voice more hoarse than usual. His eyes never leave Jaskier’s buoyant form as he thinks,_ forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, _“just friends.”_

***

[ **Jaskier, 4:07pm** ]: What time do you go over the books on Sunday?

[ **Geralt, 4:08pm** ]: 8

[ **Geralt, 4:08pm** ]: Why?

[ **Jaskier, 4:10pm** ]: Cause I wanna come hang out! Duh!

[ **Jaskier, 4:10pm** ]: And also meet Eskel and Renfri :)

[ **Jaskier, 4:11pm** ]: Important side-note. How do I get them to like me?

[ **Geralt, 4:14pm** ]: You can’t make Ren like you. But coffee and bagels will help.

[ **Jaskier, 4:15pm** ]: Done!!

[ **Jaskier, 4:15pm** ]: I’m only bringing everything bagels btw because it’s obviously the superior kind.

[ **Geralt, 4:16pm** ]: Obviously.

***

“Mooorning! I come bearing coffee! And sustenance!” Jaskier greets cheerily. He’s fresh-faced and as dressed down as Geralt’s ever seen him, in a pink short-sleeved button-up with pineapples printed all over it and light-wash denim shorts. Underneath one arm is a paper bag. In the other is a cardboard cup holder with four coffees. There are no rings stacked on his fingers or delicate golden chains around his neck.

Geralt walks up to Jaskier and quickly takes the coffees from him. Jaskier shoots him an appreciative grin. “You’re a morning person, what a surprise,” Geralt remarks with a dry smirk.

“I’m just a pleasant person 24/7. Don’t be a hater, Geralt,” Jaskier says, following him up the set of stairs that lead from the bar and into the office. Geralt can feel him practically vibrating with curiosity and excitement, eyes roaming around. “I can’t believe I’m finally getting to see the upstairs.”

“It’s just an office, Jaskier.”

“Still! It’s, like, a part of you. A window into who you are.”

Geralt props open the door and lets Jaskier walk in first. “Your expectations are too high.”

Renfri and Eskel are moving about the office, and Jaskier goes to greet them both with unbridled enthusiasm.

“Jaskier, we’ve heard so much about you,” Renfri says, shooting a wicked grin Geralt’s way. Geralt narrows his eyes.

Jaskier’s eyes are sparkling. “Oh really? I can totally see Geralt singing my praises.”

“She means Geralt’s mentioned you, which is more than we can say for most people,” Eskel cuts in with good humor. Jaskier throws his head back and laughs. He already looks like he belongs here, in Geralt’s space. The intensity with which Geralt _enjoys_ that catches him off guard; makes his heart clench unexpectedly.

Jaskier turns and meets Geralt’s gaze. There’s a soft smile playing on his lips. “I like being someone Geralt can talk about,” he says like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he’s talking about the weather.

Before Geralt can even _begin_ to process the complicated string of emotions he’s feeling, Jaskier is plucking two of the coffees out of the carton. “I got you all coffees just the way you like ‘em!” he says. “Eskel, this one’s yours. Renfri, Geralt said you take your coffee black, er, is that right?”

“Hell yeah,” she replies, taking the proffered coffee. “Black. Just like my soul.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen comically. “Um, _wow_ , respect,” he says in a rush, “and kind of sexy too?”

Renfri flashes her canines. “I eat twinks like you for breakfast.”

“I bet you do,” says Jaskier admiringly. “I _did_ bring egg and cheese sandwiches though if we can table the twink eating for now.”

Geralt presses his lips together to hide his smile, but he feels himself relax when Renfri laughs, giving Jaskier a good-natured punch on his shoulder. He hands Jaskier his iced coffee - a rather frightening concoction that contains what should really be illegal amounts of sugar and whipped cream - settling in and digging into his own egg and cheese bagel with gusto.

“Holy shit, Jaskier,” Eskel says around a bite. “This is _ridiculously_ good.”

“Right?” agrees Jaskier, enthused. “It’s from this tiny little place right by my flat. Best bagels in the city.”

“So can we expect you to be bringing these every Sunday or…?” Renfri trails off with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh! Well, er,” Jaskier glances over at Geralt. “If it’s something y’all would want?”

Geralt feels like he’s on the precipice of something important. He admits gruffly, “I’d like that.”

Renfri smirks. “Yeah you would,” she teases low enough so only Geralt can hear. Geralt kicks her under the table. She sticks her tongue out at him unrepentantly.

“Don’t mind them,” Geralt hears Eskel tell Jaskier. “They’re always like this.”

Jaskier grins, gesturing animatedly with his coffee. Geralt watches some slosh over the rim with heightened wariness. “I think it’s cute,” he says. His eyes, blue and big and hopelessly fond, never stray from Geralt. “You’ve all known each other a long time, yeah?”

“We grew up in the same foster home, the three of us and Lambert,” Renfri says. “Up north near the mountains. We saved up and moved down here to open the bar. Although Lambert didn’t want to go into business with us, the dick.”

“Lambert’s in _school_ ,” Geralt says. “He bartends on the weekends.”

Renfri waves him off. “Details. What about you Jaskier?”

“What about me?”

“Tell us about you.”

“Not much to tell, really. I grew up in the south. Moved here because of the theatre scene,” Jaskier says in between sips of his coffee. The straw is mangled and his cup is running low. He’ll want water soon, the way he always does when he drinks something far too sweet.

Geralt gets up and fetches him a glass. He pointedly ignores Renfri’s bemused stare.

Jaskier murmurs a quick, “thank you,” before continuing, “Any way, my friend Essi got me this great audition for this show she’d been doing, and I’ve been acting in that ever since! You should all come see it sometime, I’ll get you tickets.”

“You can do that?” Eskel asks.

“Oh yeah, all the actors get, like, a few tickets for family and friends but I haven’t really had anyone I wanted to invite besides Priscilla. Parents don’t really much care for the theatre,” explains Jaskier with nonchalance, but Geralt hears the little hitch in his breath. Jaskier’s never talked about his parents, but Geralt suddenly knows that the relationship is a painful one.

He goes to squeeze Jaskier’s thigh under the table. Jaskier covers Geralt’s hand with his. It’s warm, soft, familiar, the slender, calloused fingers pressing into the fleshy side of Geralt’s hand while the thumb rubs circles into his wrist.

“Anyway,” Jaskier says, the brightness in his tone more genuine. “I’d _much_ rather have you come see me.”

“Well that depends,” Renfri says, drumming her fingers against her chin thoughtfully. She’s splayed out in her chair, legs stretched out, combat boots knocking against Geralt’s ankles.

“On what?”

“On whether you’re any good.”

“He’s good,” Geralt cuts in automatically before Jaskier has a chance to respond.

Renfri’s smirk deepens, looking like the cat that got the cream. Geralt’s never going to hear the end of it. “And how would you know that?”

_“When a humble bard…”_

_“...and so cried the witcher...”_

_“Toss a coin to your witcher, o valley of plenty…”_

There’s a whisper of a song skirting the edges of his mind, faint but startlingly clear. Geralt’s never heard Jaskier sing, but there it is, a tune in Jaskier’s unmistakable honeyed voice. His fingers flex on Jaskier’s thigh.

“Just a hunch,” he says.

Underneath the table, Jaskier’s hand squeezes Geralt’s so hard he feels the indent of every single finger.

***

_Geralt stands in the far corner of the theatre, watching as person after person walks up to Jaskier to congratulate him on his latest production. Jaskier, like a flower in spring, blossoms under all the fawning and the attention, blue eyes alive and smiling wide._

_The bouquet in Geralt’s hand feels very heavy, and he’s suddenly overcome with the irrational urge to run. He frowns down at the bouquet, thumb skimming over the delicate petals._

_“I love the way you just stand in the corner and brood.”_

_An involuntary smile pulls at Geralt’s lips when he looks up to meet Jaskier’s gaze. “Hm,” he says, pushing himself off the wall to meet Jaskier halfway. Under the hazy, faint candlelight, the theatre looks smaller, homier. Like an inn. Or a tavern._

_Geralt blinks that thought away when he hears Jaskier ask softly, “Are those for me?”_

_“Oh. Yeah,” heat rises to his cheeks, “For - congratulations on the new play,” Geralt says a little awkwardly, thrusting the bouquet of flowers into Jaskier’s outstretched palms. “Ciri helped me pick them out. They’re cornflowers and buttercups, for -”_

Your eyes. Your name, _he wants to say._

_Jaskier seems to understand all the same. His face turns a particularly bewitching shade of pink. “They’re lovely. Absolutely lovely. Thank you, Geralt.” His eyes are shining, ringed fingers thumbing delicately over the petals. “Did you enjoy the play?”_

_This feels familiar. Geralt’s smiling wryly when he asks, “Do I only get three words or less?”_

_“I was just trying to give you parameters that you could work with, you scamp! But if you’d like to be more verbose, please be my guest.”_

_They’re walking as they talk, the theatre soon long behind them. Jaskier threads his arm through Geralt’s, the bouquet firmly secure in his other hand._

_Geralt hums, thoughtful, head tipping back. The moon is a full circle in the night sky. “It was...different.”_

_“Different in what way?”_

_“Sadder. Your plays are usually so happy and funny. This one was...complicated.”_

_“A star-crossed love is not without its sad and complicated moments, Geralt. But they made it at the end, despite the curse, you saw that, right?”_

_“Yeah,” Geralt acknowledges, and his heart twists in his chest. “Was it - did you think about us when you wrote it?”_

_He feels instantly foolish for asking, but the question is out there. Jaskier nestles closer. “Us from another lifetime.”_

_“We didn’t have another lifetime, Jaskier.”_

_“Mmm, if you say so, darling.”_

_Geralt stops walking to face Jaskier. “You think we’ll make it,” he murmurs around his heart-packed throat. He looks at Jaskier intently, wanting to commit every little detail of this night, of him, to memory. The way the moon bounces off his hair, the color of his expensive silk jacket, the jaunty tilt of his ridiculous hat, the softness of his eyes and his smile as he stares back at Geralt unfailingly brave._

_“I_ know _we will,” Jaskier replies with conviction, eyes a little dewy and impossibly in love, arms going around Geralt’s shoulders. “No matter how long it takes.”_

_He leans in just as Geralt pulls him closer, fingers tight on Jaskier’s waist._

_They kiss underneath a sky full of stars._

***

At Jaskier’s request, Geralt drives them to the beach one weekend. Eskel, Renfri, Priscilla, and Lambert all tag along. Piling up into the car would have been an adventure in and of itself if not for Geralt’s pickup truck. Jaskier plants himself firmly in the passenger seat next to Geralt and controls the music for the entire car ride. It’s not unpleasant.

When they get to the coast, the ocean is a shimmering cerulean, waves low and rippling, the sand a brilliant golden white. The boardwalk is lined with little shops and restaurants, and they spend most of the morning walking around before settling their towels, a cooler filled with beer, hard seltzer, wine, and water, and a pair of rented parasols onto the beach.

“Oooooh, we should play never have I ever!” Jaskier claps his hands excitedly, jostling the bracelets on his wrists. His shirt is entirely unbuttoned, exposing a lean chest covered in downy hair. His swim shorts are an electric blue that bring out his eyes, and dotted entirely in pink flamingos. “We could even turn it into a drinking game.”

Geralt grabs himself a beer and wordlessly hands Jaskier one of the hard seltzers before sitting down next to him. It’s the raspberry flavor, Jaskier’s favorite. Priscilla props herself up on her forearms. “That could be fun,” she says. “I’m in.”

“Is the goal to get other people drunk by singling out things they’ve done that I haven’t?” Renfri asks.

Jaskier confirms, “Pretty much.”

Her grin turns wicked. She slides her retro teashade sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “You dickheads are all going down,” she says, gesturing at Eskel, Lambert, and Geralt. Lambert snorts, amused, into his beer.

“Okay, yay!” Jaskier sits up. His thigh is pressed tightly against Geralt’s. Geralt doesn’t move away. “Alright, everyone hold up five fingers. Ren, you seem excited, why don’t you start us off, darling.”

They sit together in a circle under the parasols, shielded from the sun’s blistering heat. Renfri flashes her canines once more. “Never have I ever cried after one of Vesemir’s workouts.”

All three men have the same stricken expression on their faces. “Oh, fuck you, Ren,” Eskel mumbles, taking a sip of beer. Lambert and Geralt follow his lead.

Priscilla is very clearly trying to hold back a laugh as she asks, “Vesemir?”

“Our foster father. Made us do all kinds of workouts when we were teens to build character,” says Renfri smugly.

Jaskier gasps softly, putting a hand on his chest. “And you _cried_?” he says to Geralt. “Oh, bless you, sweetheart.”

“It was just once,” Geralt mumbles, grateful that his sunglasses partially obstruct his face. “And we were never supposed to mention it.”

“ _We_ never agreed to that,” Renfri enunciates, looking entirely too self-satisfied. “Whose turn is it now?”

They keep going a couple more rounds, alcohol-induced flushes getting progressively darker, and the plastic trash bag getting more and more full with bottles and cans. Priscilla and Jaskier are both down to one finger each when she says, through a fit of giggles, “Never have I ever walked into a bar just because the name sounded cool.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops almost comically, “You _bitch_ ,” he says, out of fingers.

“Love you too babe!” Priscilla crows, blowing him a kiss. “Now chug your drink.”

Geralt looks between the two of them, confused. “Which bar?” Jaskier seems properly flustered as he downs the rest of his seltzer, which is unlike him. Geralt’s surprised by how _endearing_ he finds it.

Jaskier meets his gaze and, if possible, looks even more embarrassed. “I’ll give you one guess.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling us you just walked into our bar because you liked the _name_?” Renfri says with an incredulous smile. Geralt’s heartbeat quickens, fingers flexing around the bottleneck of his beer.

Jaskier shrugs a little helplessly, a lot defiantly. “What can I say, it just - it called to me! I’d never seen anything like it.”

“Jaskier, how sweet,” Renfri says around a chuckle. Jaskier sticks his tongue out at her.

“I won’t apologize for my romanticism.”

“You’ll be glad to know _Geralt_ picked the name,” says Eskel, adjusting his baseball cap.

Jaskier turns to look at Geralt with an expression Geralt can’t quite place, but that makes his throat suddenly run dry. “You did?” he asks softly. “How’d you come up with it?”

Geralt shuffles uncomfortably and resists the urge to pick at the towel. His thigh is still pressed against Jaskier’s. Part of him wants to lie - if only to spare himself from his foster siblings’ teasing - but the rest of him is helpless to Jaskier’s big, questioning blue eyes. “I, uh, I heard it,” he admits gruffly. “In a dream.”

“Say what now?” Lambert says, incredulous.

Jaskier ignores him, fixing Geralt intently. “What did you hear?”

Geralt takes a breath. “But here in Posada, you’d be wise to beware.” In his head, he hears it over, and over and over again.

_Posada._

_Posada._

_Posada._

“That sounds like a song,” Jaskier murmurs and it’s just the two of them now, everything else - the ocean, the sun, their friends - just melts away.

“It was,” Geralt confirms, tongue suddenly twice its usual size in his mouth. He wonders how Jaskier knew.

He doesn’t ask, even though he wants to.

***

_“Do you believe in past lives, Geralt?”_

_Geralt sits up from where he’s sprawled next to Jaskier on the grass, propping himself up on his forearms. They’d left their shift at the club as soon as it was over and hitched a cab to the cliffs just on the outskirts of the city. “The edge of the world,” Jaskier had said, smiling his secret smile, the first time he’d brought Geralt here._

_He looks at Jaskier now, half-amused, half-exasperated. “What are you talking about now?”_

_“Past lives.” Jaskier props himself up and turns to face Geralt. “As in - if I were to tell you that you and I have lived and met each other many times over hundreds of years, would you believe me?”_

_“No. Why, do you believe that?”_

_“Oh yes. I believe I’ve lived many lifetimes, and I’ve loved you in every single one,” says Jaskier, hand dropping to curl into the damp grass. It’s easily the most insane thing Jaskier has ever said to Geralt, and he has said some truly crazy things._

_But Geralt’s heart skips two full beats and the muscles in his abdomen clench. “Do you now?” he murmurs. “Love me?”_

_Jaskier’s eyes look almost silver in the halo of the full moon. Geralt hears the sounds of the city in the distance - cars, street peddlers, saxophones and trumpets and jazz music. “Surely that’s not news to you,” Jaskier replies, just as softly, fingers plucking at blades of grass - a nervous tick._

_Geralt settles the hand - the hand he’s seen coax music out of pianos and trumpets and saxophones and bass guitars; the hand that is lined with golden rings, that is filled with warmth and affection and love, the hand fits so perfectly with Geralt’s - and links their fingers together. “It’s not,” he rasps even as his heart knocks against his teeth. “Jaskier, I-”_

_“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it back, Geralt.” Jaskier squeezes his hand. Understanding. Warmth. Softness. Again._

_Geralt doesn’t know how he even begins to be worthy of this._

_“I thought - I thought I didn’t want anything. That I didn’t need anyone,” he confesses hoarsely, honest and gruff and vulnerable in a way Geralt never really lets himself be, because he thinks he’s not allowed, doesn’t deserve it._

_Jaskier smiles at him so tenderly and brings Geralt’s hands up to press a soft kiss along the ridges of his knuckles. “And yet,” he breathes softly against the skin of Geralt’s hand, and Geralt makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, “here we are.”_

***

Priscilla corners him at the bar while the others are busy sitting themselves at one of the booths in the restaurant. Geralt turns his head to glance at her, amused. “Yes?”

“What’s your deal with Jaskier?” she asks without preamble, flagging down the bartender. “Can I get two Moscow Mules please?”

“My deal?” Geralt repeats, blinking in surprise.

“Your intentions.”

“Are we sixteen?”

“Come on, Geralt,” Priscilla says with uncharacteristic seriousness. “I know Jaskier. He flirts, he dates, he sleeps around - probably with people he shouldn’t, but still. He doesn’t really do any of the last two things anymore.”

There’s a dull throbbing at the back of Geralt’s head. “What’s your point?”

“He _likes_ you, Geralt. What are you going to do about it?”

Geralt’s eyes involuntarily wander over to the booth. Jaskier is talking animatedly, hands gesturing wildly. There’s just the barest hints of a flush on his cheeks, neck, and chest from spending the whole day at the beach.

Their eyes meet and Jaskier grins and flutters his fingers in a wave. Geralt quickly averts his gaze. “We’re just friends, Pri.”

His insides feel like they want to eat themselves.

The bartender comes back with the mules. Priscilla fixes Geralt with a long look. “If you believe that, you’re lying to yourself,” she says, before grabbing the drinks and leaving. He watches Priscilla slide next to Renfri and press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Renfri smiles wide, lip piercing catching the light. Things have apparently progressed between the two over the weekend. Geralt should be happy for them. He knows Renfri’s liked Priscilla for a while.

Instead, he feels something like envy bubbling in his stomach. Geralt turns back around to face the bar and tries not to think about Jaskier.

***

_Geralt’s distracted._

_There’s a Bruxa that’s been terrorizing a cluster of townships and villages in northern Temeria. Geralt knows it’s only one because the story is always the same. A beautiful, tall, and lithe woman with porcelain skin, ebony eyes, and long dark curls walks into a tavern, always at night. She requests a goblet of wine. Her voice tinkles like silver bells._

_Soon enough, men will come up and talk to her. Why wouldn’t they? A beautiful woman, drinking all alone. She is polite, charming, but largely indifferent to the attention, until she finds a man she likes. They talk for most of the night. She asks to take a walk outside._

_The man isn’t seen again. His body, mangled and with a huge gash across his neck, is only found a few days later. But the woman is long gone._

_Geralt’s been tracking her for weeks now, but the Bruxa is clever, and continues to elude him as her body count grows. Besides the guilt at having failed so many innocent men, there’s something else roiling Geralt’s gut._

_The Bruxa has a type._

_Her victims - always male - tend to skew young, with the same basic characteristics. Slender. Brown hair. Big blue eyes._

_“I’m not going to fucking_ Toussaint, _Geralt. I’m staying with you.”_

_Geralt grinds his teeth. “You’re not safe here, Jaskier. The Bruxa -”_

She’ll hurt you. I can’t have you die on my watch.

_“Won’t touch me as long as I’m with you,” Jaskier cuts in vehemently. “You and that big scary silver sword of yours. I seem to recall they don’t much like being near silver.”_

_Geralt’s temples are throbbing. “That’s now how it works. She chooses men that_ look _like you. You need to leave. You’ll be safer with Yennefer.”_

_“I’m safe when I’m with you!” Jaskier thunders. He doesn’t stomp his foot, but Geralt can tell it’s a very near thing. The flecks of amber in those blue eyes are ablaze. His mouth is set in a determined line._

You don’t understand. I can’t lose you. I love you.

 _Jaskier won’t leave him, Geralt realizes, sick to his stomach. Not unless he makes him leave. “Damn it, Jaskier.” Geralt musters as much venom as he can. “Why do you insist on being so fucking contrarian? This monster has been killing men for weeks. Men that look like_ you. _This isn’t an opportunity for you to spin more lies with your songs. I don’t_ want _you here. Stop acting like a fucking child. Pick up your gods-damned xenovox and have Yennefer come get you. You’re only going to get in my way.”_

_Jaskier recoils like he’s been slapped. His face, usually so expressive, is blank, pale as a sheet. Geralt feels the nausea rise in his belly._

I’m sorry. This was the only way to keep you safe. You wouldn’t leave me otherwise. I know you wouldn’t.

_He swallows down the bile and bites his tongue._

_“Fine,” Jaskier whispers after an eternity. His hands are trembling as he collects his pack and his lute. “You want me to go so badly? I’m gone.”_

_Jaskier slams the door behind him. Geralt heaves a deep, shuddering breath. This is what’s best, he keeps telling himself. He’ll get hell from Yennefer for this, but she’ll wait to portal Jaskier back to Toussaint with her first. Geralt will apologize as soon as the Bruxa is dead._

_It is worth upsetting Jaskier for a few days if it means he’s safe, Geralt convinces himself._

_This is Geralt’s worst mistake._

***

_He’s not entirely sure what possesses him to check in with Yennefer, but there’s a cold dread filling up his stomach that he just can’t seem to shake. Geralt fishes his own xenovox out of his pack._

_“Geralt,” Yennefer's voice floats over not a moment later. “Have you convinced your bard that I should come collect him?”_

_It’s like the wind knocks out of him all at once. Geralt’s grip on the xenovox tightens so much it nearly cracks. “Jaskier’s not with you?”_

_A pause. “No. Why would he be with me?”_

_Geralt nearly drops the xenovox as he rushes out of the room, ignoring Yennefer’s repeated calls of his name._

_Jaskier isn’t performing or sitting at any of the tables downstairs. The dread brewing in his belly intensifies. Geralt makes a beeline to the innkeeper._

_“The bard,” he says through gritted teeth and without preamble. “Have you seen him?”_

_The innkeeper's eyes briefly widen, clearly startled, before slowly nodding. “He was here earlier, master witcher. Left a moment ago with a beautiful woman.”_

No.

_“What did she look like? The woman.”_

_“Pale. Long black hair. Black eyes. Very beautiful.”_

_Geralt is going to vomit._

No, no, no, no, no.

 _That can’t be right. That_ isn’t _right. She’s supposed to be_ gone _. She’s supposed to have left this town._

_“Geralt!”_

_Steely violet eyes and the scent of lilac and gooseberries snap Geralt out of his daze. The residual spark of magic is still in the air from when Yennefer must have portalled._

_“She took him, Yen,” Geralt grounds out, nearly sprinting out of the inn, Yen hot on his heels. “The Bruxa. I have to find him before -”_

_He can’t bring himself to finish that sentence, the words locking up in his throat. Yennefer nods once curtly. “I’ll track him,” she says, humming a spell in Elder under her breath. She seems perfectly calm and collected, but Geralt can see the panic in the tight set of her jaw, a glint of fear in her eyes._

_By the time they find Jaskier it’s too late. The Bruxa already has her fangs sunk deep into his neck, twin trails of blood cascading down Jaskier’s frame, staining his doublet crimson._

***

“Geralt, you look like death,” Renfri comments the morning they’re due to leave the beach.

Geralt shrugs, keenly aware that Jaskier is now looking over at him with concern. “Gee, thanks.” He attempts to deflect, but knows he fails.

Renfri cocks an unimpressed eyebrow. “Is it the nightmares again?”

Geralt closes his eyes, even if he can still feel the imprint of Jaskier’s gaze, like a brand on him. “Yeah,” he admits, because it’s the truth and he’s so goddamn tired. He’s pretty sure everyone can hear their conversation.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Images swirl around in his mind, a kaleidoscope of nightmares. Jaskier’s big, bright, blue eyes, vacant and lifeless and unblinking. Face white as a sheet. Long and slender neck marred with teeth marks, a river of blood emerging from the wound.

Geralt opens his eyes.

“No.” He manages to speak around the lump clogging up his throat. “I just - I need to sleep.”

Renfri settles a warm hand in the crook of his elbow. “Okay,” she replies evenly. “We’ll get you sleep.”

He tugs gently on a lock of her brown hair, a silent gesture of thanks.

Renfri drives them back to town. She parks Geralt in the passenger seat, and gestures for Jaskier to take a seat in the back with Priscilla. Lambert and Eskel sit in the trunk.

Geralt presses his head against the window and desperately tries to let the steady thrum of the car lull him to sleep.

“Ren,” he hears Jaskier whisper an hour into the drive. “Is - is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” says Renfri, just as quietly. Her eyes, hidden behind red-tinted sunglasses, remain firmly on the road, both hands on the steering wheel.

“Are you sure? He’s been kind of - I don’t know - _off_ today. He’s barely said a word.”

Geralt forces himself not to move, even as his heart twists with guilt.

“He just hasn’t slept. Happens to him from time to time. Don’t worry, he’ll be right as rain as soon as he gets some shut eye.”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything back for a while. Geralt can feel those eyes on him and does his best not to fidget.

“If you say so,” he says eventually, sounding unusually subdued. Geralt hears Jaskier shuffle around to press himself back into the leather backseat.

The rest of the drive goes by in silence. Priscilla gets dropped off first. Then Jaskier.

Geralt pretends to sleep through it. He thinks he can hear Jaskier say something to Renfri but it’s muffled.

When they get to their apartment, Renfri fixes him with one long look before shaking her head. “You’re an asshole,” she says.

Geralt swallows thickly. “I know.”

He still turns his phone off that night, grimacing internally at the stream of unanswered texts from Jaskier. Geralt will answer them tomorrow, he tells himself. He just needs sleep first.

Sleep does come, but Geralt’s dreams are once again filled with vacant blue eyes and a river of crimson blood.

***

[ **Jaskier, 6:05pm** ]: Hope you feel better!

[ **Jaskier, 7:40pm** ]: Wanna grab a drink tomorrow?

[ **Jaskier, 7:41pm** ]: Or a coffee. I’m not picky.

[ **Jaskier, 7:41pm** ]: Just let me know what works!

[ **Geralt, 11:30am** ]: Can’t. Got a few things to do for the bar today.

***

_Geralt doesn’t think. His vision tunnels until all he sees is the Bruxa with her fangs fastened to Jaskier’s neck. He brandishes his silver sword with a guttural snarl._

_The Bruxa doesn’t stand a chance._

_She’s only barely looked up when Geralt runs his sword clean through her belly. The scream she lets out satisfies the thing within Geralt that demands retribution, but he’s not nearly done with her yet. He retracts his sword and slashes it across the Bruxa’s throat. She lets go of Jaskier and crumples to the ground._

_Geralt drops his sword and rushes to pick up Jaskier slowly, cradling him close to his chest. Geralt’s breathing harshly, heart rabbiting in his chest. Jaskier is as white as snow and unresponsive, his eyes screwed shut. The hysteria within Geralt intensifies._

_“Jaskier,” he snaps, jostling the bard in his arms, willing him to open his eyes. Warm, wet, sticky blood spills onto his gloved hands, and there’s so much of it Geralt can feel it coating his fingers. “Jaskier!”_

_He barely registers Yennefer crouching over on Jaskier’s other side until a glowing hand enters his line of vision. Yennefer inhales sharply, every line of her body flooding with tension. “Gods-damn it,” she whispers and Geralt’s blood turns to ice in his veins._

_“Yen -”_

_“Shut up and let me work, Geralt.”_

_The glow of magic becomes brighter. Geralt sees the gaping wound on Jaskier’s neck try to stitch itself back together. The acrid, copper scent of blood is everywhere. Geralt feels it stain his armor, his pants, his shirt, as he grips Jaskier closer to him._

_Slowly, Jaskier’s eyes flutter open. Geralt lets out a small noise of surprise and gratitude, hand sliding down to grip the bard’s nape tenderly. “Jaskier.”_

_“Geralt,” Jaskier wheezes, and gods, he sounds terrible, his voice rough and raw and shot._

_Gerlat shushes him softly, trying to be soothing. “Don’t talk yet, Jaskier. Yennefer’s healing you.”_

_“She really - shouldn’t bother.”_

_Geralt feels like a lance went straight through his heart. “Don’t say that,” he snarls, even as he looks up to Yennefer. The sorceress’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and there’s a bead of sweat trickling down her forehead._

_It’s the smell of fear, sour as spoiled milk, coming off of her that makes Geralt pull Jaskier even closer to his chest. “Yennefer.”_

_She doesn’t respond. Magic is still thrumming through her hands, although the witcher can see her fingers are starting to tremble._

_“Yennefer!”_

_Yen looks up with red-rimmed eyes. “He’s lost too much blood,” she murmurs, and her voice is a little wet, filled with grief. “I can - I can give him a few minutes. Take away the pain.”_

_Panic is rising in Geralt’s breastbone. “No. Save him.”_

_“I can’t. Geralt, he’s -”_

_“Save him!” he snarls, gnashes his teeth, but it’s pleading and he’s terrified, terrified out of his skin. “Yen - I can’t lose him.”_

_The sorceress is about to say something, but Jaskier cuts in. Pale, blood-stained fingers come up to cup Geralt’s jaw. “Geralt - Geralt listen to me, darling,” Jaskier says, though each word comes with great difficulty. He coughs, and vermillion blood drips out of his mouth. “Death is too inconsequential to erase my feelings for you, do you hear me? I will always love you.”_

_“Jaskier -”_

_“I will always be with you. Always.”_

_“Jaskier -”_

_“I love you Geralt,” his words are more labored now, but Jaskier manages a smile. His fingers twist in Geralt’s armor. Geralt knows it’s an image that will be seared into his mind forever. “In this life and the next.”_

_Jaskier breathes one last, rattling breath. Geralt feels the life seep out of the bard. His hand stills and drops, his eyes - as blue as they’ve ever been - lose their sparkle and turn glassy._

_“No, no, no, no, no...”_

_Geralt’s hit by the sudden, overwhelming realization that he’s run out of time. He hasn’t said any of the things he’s wanted to say to Jaskier. Now, he’ll never get to._

_Geralt grips Jaskier close and lets out a long, wounded howl._

***

Geralt skips his shift at the bar on Tuesday. He ducks his head to shove more noodles into his mouth, and tries not to let Renfri’s judgemental stare bother him when she leaves to cover his shift.

He’s judging himself harshly for the two of them as it is.

Sleep continues to elude Geralt for the most part, so when Renfri walks back into their apartment at three in the morning, she finds him sitting on the secondhand navy couch they got together at a consignment store. The TV is on but Geralt’s not really paying attention, looking so very maudlin with the now-warm beer he’s been nursing for the better part of an hour.

Renfri kicks off her combat boots and drops her keys into the bowl they have by the door. “Jaskier was at the bar,” she says.

Geralt doesn’t meet her eye. “Hm.”

“He asked about you, you know.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Don’t worry, I saved your self-sabotaging ass by feeding him some bullshit about you being sick.”

Geralt’s jaw tightens reflexively. “Ren-”

“Look,” Renfri cuts in, shrugging out of her leather jacket and throwing it over the back of a chair. “I’m only going to say this once, so listen up. I _like_ Jaskier. He’s loud and he talks too much and he’s annoying, but he’s good for you. I know you and Yennefer didn’t work out but -”

“Watch it Ren,” Geralt growls.

Renfri throws her hands up in defeat. “Having feelings for someone isn’t a bad thing, Geralt. It doesn’t make you weak. Just - don’t push away a good thing because you’re scared, alright?”

Geralt doesn’t answer, just stares intently at his beer bottle, peeling off the label with his thumb.

***

_Jaskier launches himself into Geralt’s arms, laughing, nearly sending him tumbling over in his enthusiasm. Geralt lets out a small huff of surprise as he takes on the weight of the playwright, hands settling on Jaskier’s hips._

_“Jaskier,” Geralt tries to admonish, failing horribly when his lips twitch at Jaskier’s infectious grin._

_“Geralt, I have marvelous news!” he crows, arms winding themselves tightly around Geralt’s neck._

_“News that required you to knock me over?”_

_“Oh, hush, you brute, you’re fine aren’t you?”_

_Geralt smiles, playing lightly with the delicate tear-drop earring hanging from Jaskier’s lobe. “More than,” he says softly, pleased when Jaskier ducks his head a little and blushes. His hands are still bracketing Jaskier’s hips. “What’s this news then?”_

_Excitement returned to Jaskier’s features, his whole body practically vibrating with it. He pulls back from Geralt just enough so that their eyes can meet. “The Queen’s asked me to come perform my latest play at court in two day’s time,” Jaskier says breathlessly, smiling so wide his cheeks must be hurting._

_Geralt skates a finger across the fine fabric of Jaskier’s shirt. “Jaskier, that’s wonderful.”_

_“I want you to come with me.”_

_Geralt stiffens._

_“As - as my official companion,” Jaskier says in a rush, two spots of pink high on his cheekbones. The feather on his fine velvet cap bends to obscure one of his eyes. He fixes Geralt with a tentative smile. “What do you say?”_

_Geralt swallows heavily. He tries to imagine himself, a lowly carpenter with no wealth or title to his name, escorting the most illustrious playwright in the nation to see the Queen and draws a blank. Geralt wracks his brain for an appropriate excuse. “I - I don’t think I can leave Ciri alone to travel all the way to court, Jask.”_

_“You don’t have to! She can come with us. Of course she can. I wouldn’t let Ciri miss out on the experience,” Jaskier says, earnest._

_“I - I’m not -”_

_Jaskier’s eyes roam over Geralt’s face, and he must see something in Geralt’s eyes because he’s unwinding his arms from Geralt’s neck and taking a step back, away from Geralt’s touch. His expression becomes wary, closed off, and Geralt’s heart starts to ache. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to go?”_

_“It’s not that,” Geralt replies, shaking his head. “I’m -”_

I’m not good enough for you. I don’t deserve to be on your arm.

_“I’m not comfortable in high-brow society, you know that.”_

_Jaskier frowns and retreats even further. “Well that’s an absolute load of codswallop. Want to try the truth this time, Geralt?”_

_“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”_

_“Why? Are you ashamed of us? Of me?” Jaskier’s expression is still stormy, but Geralt hears how the playwright’s voice breaks at the very end and his heart aches even more._

_“Of course not.”_

_“Then_ why _?”_

_“Because I don’t want to!” Geralt says so loudly Jaskier’s eyes widen in surprise. “I don’t have any interest in rubbing shoulders with nobility who have more wealth than sense and spend their time on frivolous things.”_

_He regrets the words as soon as he speaks them. Jaskier says nothing. Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose, swallows reflexively. “Jask, I’m sorry I didn’t mean that. I just -” he exhales, “royalty just puts me on edge.”_

_It’s not the truth, and for one, terrifying moment, Geralt believes Jaskier is going to call him out on it. But the fight leaves him all at once, and it takes everything inside of Geralt not to melt with relief._

_“Okay,” Jaskier whispers, and he lets himself be led back into Geralt’s arms. Geralt presses his nose into Jaskier’s throat and tries to calm the guilt roiling his gut. “I’ll see you when I get back.”_

***

_Geralt waits on the outskirts of town for Jaskier and his troop of actors to come back. One hour turns into two, turns into three, turns into five. Ciri checks in on him at one point, and Geralt sends her off back to Yennefer’s with a kiss on the cheek and a promise he’ll be back soon._

_Cold, bitter dread starts to twist Geralt’s insides. Jaskier always tends to run late, but he never_ lingers _._

_Geralt tries to push down the whispers in his mind that he wouldn’t be worrying like this if he’d only been brave enough to accompany Jaskier like the playwright had wanted._

_The dread intensifies when, finally, towards sundown, Geralt sees a horse and a few figures walking towards town. His heart jumps to his throat. On the horse, a dirt and tear-streaked Essi is holding on to an unconscious Jaskier. He’s pale as a sheet, and there’s sweat dampening the fine hair on his brow. But what makes the panic bubble up inside Geralt is the blood seeping through the makeshift bandage around Jaskier’s abdomen._

_The sight tugs at a memory, a nightmare, buried deep within Geralt’s mind. He rushes towards them, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste._

_“What happened?” he snarls, tone sharper than he means it to be. He helps get Jaskier off the horse, heart plummeting down to his stomach when Jaskier doesn’t so much as make a sound._

_Essi’s body is trembling with sobs. “Bandits,” she gasps through tears. “They snuck up on us when we went through the woods. We gave them everything we had but they -” Essi dissolves into fresh sobs._

_“They what, Essi?” Geralt pulls Jaskier closer to him and presses on the wound. He can feel the blood spreading underneath the fabric. The scent of copper suddenly fills his nostrils, but there’s no blood that he can see._

_“One of them tried to - tried to grab me,” she replies brokenly, her voice just above a whisper. Geralt glimpses the torn fabric of Essi’s dress and swallows back bile. “Jaskier got in the middle and stabbed him. He killed the man and injured another, but the last one -”_

_Geralt grits his teeth; hoists Jaskier more firmly into his arms, fighting the urge to just sprint back into town. They need to get him to a doctor fast._

_“He ran his dagger clean through Jaskier’s belly.” Essi e trails after Geralt and the other actors, face hidden between her hands. “Valdo managed to injure him but it was too late. And it’s all my fault.”_

_“It’s not your fault,” says Geralt firmly. “We’re going to get him to a healer and he’s going to be fine.”_

_He tries to ignore the doubt in Essi’s tear-filled eyes._

_Jaskier’s body grows colder and colder as they near the doctor’s modest home. By the time Geralt nearly tears down through the door and lays him atop a bed, Jaskier’s lips have gone blue, the tips of his fingers tinged a similar, sickly color. “Help him,” Geralt rasps, heartbeat roaring in his ears._

_The doctor takes only one look at the playwright before he shakes his head. “I can - I can give him something for the pain. Make him comfortable,” he says, and Geralt wants to scream, wants to fall to the floor, wants to die._

_Instead, Geralt begs. “Please. I can’t live without him.”_ I never told him how much I loved him. He doesn’t know what he means to me. Please. I need him.

_“I’m sorry,” the doctor says, lifting Jaskier’s head up a little to get him to swallow down some concoction. “This is all I can do.”_

_Essi hides her face between her hands once more and begins to cry in earnest. Geralt just feels numb. He sits in an old rickety chair by the sickbed and takes Jaskier’s hand in his. The minutes trickle by slowly._

_Then Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath. His eyes open and Geralt is once again assailed by brilliant, unique, wonderful blue. His throat works convulsively. “Jaskier -”_

_Jaskier smiles. It breaks Geralt’s heart. “I’ll see you in the next one, Geralt,” he murmurs, and closes his eyes for the last time._

***

 _Things with Jaskier are going well._ Too _well._

_Geralt should’ve known it wasn’t meant to last. He’s very good at fucking things up._

_It starts out innocuously enough._

_“Can I meet Ciri?” Jaskier asks one night when Geralt’s staying over. Geralt nearly drops his tumbler._

_He turns around. Jaskier is sitting at his tiny two-person dining table with his chin pillowed on his palms. There’s a cheeky grin on his face._

_Geralt’s eyes narrow. “Why?”_

_“What do you mean why?” Jaskier retorts, eyebrows raised. “Because she’s your charge. Your family. Because she’s important to you, and you care about her, and I want to care about what you care about. Those enough reasons for you?”_

_Geralt’s brain short-circuits a little. “No.”_

_“No, those aren’t enough reasons for you?”_

_“No, you can’t.”_

_There’s a brief flash of hurt that crosses Jaskier’s face before indignation takes its place. “Why not?”_

_“Because -” Geralt thinks of Ciri, who lost her parents so young, who came to live with him after he became her guardian. Who has to stay with Yennefer or Eskel when he waits tables at the club well into the early light of morning. Ciri, who is away from him right now. “It’s too soon.”_

_Jaskier finally takes his chin off his hands and straightens. “Too soon? We’ve been together nearly a_ year _, Geralt.”_

_“She’s been through a lot - I don’t, I don’t want to overwhelm her with new people,” Geralt argues, on edge. He should be happy - ecstatic even - that Jaskier wants to meet Ciri. But it fills him with fear instead. Jaskier is his haven, his to have alone. He doesn’t want to share him yet. He’s not ready._

_“She knows Yennefer and Eskel,” Jaskier points out, standing up._

_“That’s different. They’re my family.”_

_It’s the wrong thing to say. Geralt knows it’s the wrong thing to say even as the words leave his mouth. Jaskier’s whole body stiffens, jaw clenched, and his eyes are stormy._

_“Oh, and I’m, what, just the person you fuck on the side?”_

_“No. Jesus. Of course not.”_

_It’s jarring, to hear Jaskier reduce himself in such a way. Geralt sets down his tumbler and tries to give himself a moment to swallow back the revulsion that has clogged up his throat. He walks towards Jaskier, but Jaskier stands up and backs away, arms crossed defensively over his chest._

_“Then what is it Geralt? Am I not good enough to meet her?” Jaskier prods._

_“_ No _\- I - god,” Geralt rubs at his temples, “Can we not do this right now?”_

_Jaskier’s mouth clicks shut. There’s a tense line in his jaw that Geralt knows means Jaskier is grinding his teeth right now, weighing his words._

_Slowly, he exhales through his nose. “You know what, Geralt?” Jaskier says finally. “We don’t have to do this now. In fact, we don’t have to do this ever.”_

_Geralt’s eyes widen. “What?”_

_“I need you to leave now. Please.”_

_“Jaskier, what are you saying?”_

_Jaskier doesn’t answer, just crosses the few steps from his living room to his apartment door. He opens it with more force than strictly necessary and the wood creaks in protest. “I’m tired of feeling like a dirty little secret,” he whispers. “I can’t - I can’t pretend like we weren’t having this conversation. So if you’re not ready to talk about this now, I need you to go. Right now.”_

_Geralt just stares, everything inside reeling from how quickly and spectacularly things have fallen apart. He glances at his tumbler, still perched on that ridiculously tiny table, and aches for what’s been lost in the span of minutes._

_Jaskier’s looking at him like he wants him to fix this, but Geralt doesn’t have the words, doesn’t know how to explain. His fingers flex helplessly at his side and, in the end, Geralt just tilts his chin down and mutters, “I’m sorry.”_

_He can almost taste Jaskier’s disappointment in the sigh that leaves him. He props the door open wider. “Yeah, me too. Goodbye Geralt.”_

_Jaskier slams the door behind him._

***

_Geralt caves and apologizes a few days later. Jaskier, of course, forgives him. Easily._

_It still sends Geralt’s stomach into knots, how easily Jaskier will absolve him of wrongdoing. He feels like maybe he’s not worthy of it._

_They slide back into their old rhythm in no time. Once again, Geralt’s nights are filled with drives to the edge of the word and whiskey-flavored kisses traded underneath a starlit sky._

_Except -_

_Geralt can’t help but notice that Jaskier doesn’t bring up meeting Ciri again. He knows Jaskier intimately - knows how much he picks and prods and wheedles until he gets his way - and it feels like Geralt’s broken something he didn’t even know existed, like there’s a pronounced, unspoken space between them, like he’s drawn a line in their relationship he’s not even sure he wanted in the first place._

_Things are mostly the same though, and as the weeks trickle by and Jaskier remains as lovely and kind and talkative and wonderful as he’s ever been, Geralt settles into an uneasy kind of complacency._

_It happens when he least expects it._

_Jaskier gets a cough._

_“You shouldn’t play, rest your voice,” says Geralt, eyebrows furrowed._

_Jaskier waves him off. “I’m fine, it’ll go away soon. Besides, I can’t afford to lose out on this money. Have to make rent somehow.”_

You could come live with me _, Geralt thinks. He presses his lips into a thin line._

_The cough doesn’t go away soon. It gets progressively worse and worse until Jaskier coughs up blood one night. Geralt’s spine fills with ice when he sees Jaskier remove a trembling hand from his lips to see it covered in vermillion red, the corner of his mouth tinged in the same, awful color._

_His throat swells up to twice his size, and Geralt feels like he’s seen this before, has seen Jaskier’s throat ballooned the same way it is now. He thinks maybe he’s had nightmares about this._

_Geralt knows what it is before the doctor even speaks._

_“A tumor,” the young physician informs them. His face is schooled into one of perfect professionalism, but Geralt can see the hurt and sympathy brewing in his eyes._

_It’s too difficult for Jaskier to speak, so Geralt rasps out, “Can you treat it?”_

_The doctor looks stricken. He slowly shakes his head. “It’s - it’s too advanced to treat. All I can do is -”_

_“If you say make him comfortable,” Geralt hisses, “I will punch you in the goddamn face.”_

_A hand comes to encircle around his wrist. Geralt turns to see Jaskier looking up at him with a soft, almost serene expression. “Geralt,” he croaks and it hurts Geralt, to hear Jaskier’s voice - his livelihood, his joy - completely shot, choked up but the tumor swelling up his throat. “It’s okay.”_

_“It’s_ not _,” Geralt whispers furiously, blinking back tears. There’s panic and fear and something suspiciously like a fucked-up kind of déjà-vu loosening up the words that have been stuck on his long for way too goddamn long. “I can’t lose you again, okay? I can’t do it. I can’t have you taken away from me when I just got you back.”_

_He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Jaskier lifts a warm, soothing hand to wipe away the tears from his face. “Wait for me, darling. Just wait. I swear to you, I’ll find you in the next one,” Jaskier promises._

_Geralt chokes on another sob, closes his eyes, and leans into Jaskier’s palm._

***

There’s a loud and persistent knocking at the door that rouses Geralt from his non-nap. He’s so tired he doesn’t even bother checking through the peep-hole before opening the door.

Jaskier comes barrelling in.

“What the fuck,” says Geralt, too stunned to do anything but move out of the way.

Jaskier spins on his heel and fixes Geralt with a murderous glare. Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jaskier so furious. The effect is no less dampened by the neon lilac shirt with the green kiwis printed all over it. Geralt actually withers under its force.

“I should be asking _you_ that,” Jaskier snaps. He’s gesturing wildly as he speaks, the stacks of golden rings on his fingers glinting as he does. “Dodging my texts, my calls, _me_? Seriously? What the fuck’s your problem?”

Geralt has the sense to close the door to his apartment before answering. He tries hard not to show his discomfort. “I’m not dodging anything,” he mumbles half-heartedly.

If possible, it makes Jaskier even more furious. “Oh ho ho ho ho, don’t even _try_ that bullshit on me. We both know exactly what you’re doing.”

He walks up to Geralt, thrusts a long and slender finger right into Geralt’s solar plexus. “You care and when you care, you push people away. You keep them at arm’s length. Well, I’m not letting you do this to us again. You cannot push me away, Geralt, you hear me? _You can’t push me away_. So grow the fuck up!”

Jaskier is breathing hard, cheeks painted a bright, angry red. Geralt’s chest hurts from the amount of times Jaskier’s poked his finger into it. But there’s something warm and lovely and right brewing in his stomach. “You’ve been sitting on that.”

Somehow it works. Geralt sees the fight melt out of Jaskier’s stiff shoulders. Jaskier takes a seat on the couch, letting out a low breath. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” Their eyes meet again. “So what do you say?”

There’s a vulnerability in his voice that Geralt desperately wants to match. He crosses the room and sits next to Jaskier, who automatically turns to face him. Geralt chews on the inside of his cheek. “I shouldn’t - I shouldn’t have done what I did. You didn’t deserve that.”

“And?” Jaskier prods.

Geralt nearly huffs out a laugh. Of course, Jaskier would make him work for it. “And I’m sorry.”

“Good. You’re not out of the woods yet. But it’s a start,” says Jaskier. His eyes drop and he starts fiddling with his rings. This close, Geralt can smell the coconut shampoo Jaskier favors. His nostrils flare involuntarily, letting the comforting scent curl around him.

“Why’d you do it?” Jaskier asks finally, quiet and small. He’s still fixing his rings intently. “Did I do something?”

Geralt’s heart hurts. “No of course not, it’s just -,” fear and adrenaline are packing his throat but Geralt needs to do this because _Jaskier_ needs him to. So he gathers up his courage and tucks gentle, questing fingers underneath Jaskier’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze once more.

“You scare me so bad.” t’s like a weight comes off his chest, a truth finally set free.

Jaskier’s eyes are so very blue and earnest as he looks at Geralt. Fearless in a way Geralt admires. “Caring is scary. Feelings are scary,” he replies like he can read Geralt’s mind. “You just have to be brave. Take a leap of faith.”

Geralt starts plucking at a stray thread on Jaskier’s skinny jeans. Incredibly, Jaskier lets him. “I - I don’t know how to do that.”

Jaskier’s hand covers Geralt and squeezes. “That’s okay. I can show you. If you’ll let me,” he whispers.

“I want to.”

“Good. Good. That’s good.” A pause. There isn’t any awkwardness in the silence. Only a sort of contented contemplation. Geralt takes the moment to bask in Jaskier’s presence again. God, he’s missed him. “Don’t push me away ever again.”

Geralt, braver now than he’s ever been, loops an arm around Jaskier’s waist and tugs him close in a half-hug. “I’ll do my best.”

Jaskier hums, grateful, and melts into the hug. His hair rests right underneath Geralt’s nose. The smell of coconut gets stronger.

“So who told you I’d be home?” Geralt rumbles. “Ren?”

Jaskier lets out a wet laugh. “Yennefer, actually. If you can believe it.”

Geralt blinks in surprise. Jaskier’s only met Yen a handful times, at most. Romance may not have been in the cards for them, but she’s always going to be an important part of Geralt’s life. Family.

“I didn’t know you two were…” Geralt tries to find the word and eventually settles on, “friends.”

There’s a secretive smile curling Jaskier’s lips. “It’s not always sunshine and rainbows with the two of us, but we’ve always been able to make it work for you.”

Geralt doesn’t really know what any of _that_ means, so he just pulls Jaskier closer, relishing in having him close by again.

The nightmares don’t stop.

***

_They buried Jaskier ten days ago._

_Geralt hasn’t slept since. Every time he closes his eyes, all he sees are vacant, unblinking blue eyes staring back at him, the light snuffed out of them._

_He’s dealt with multiple bouts of insomnia over the decades, but nothing quite as severe since thoughts of Destiny and girls in the wood and Ciri had made him desperate enough to fish for a djinn._

_Geralt finds himself entertaining a similar expedition once more._

_“You’re leaving?”_

_Geralt pauses in his packing and turns his head around an inch. Yennefer is at his door, arms crossed over her chest and eyebrows furrowed in concern._

_He resumes packing, delicately loading up vials of potions and tins of salves. “Hm.”_

_The brush-off doesn’t work. Yennefer purses her lips. “Geralt. Where are you going?”_

_"There's - a djinn."_

_“A djinn?” she barks, incredulous. “Have you gone out of your mind? Djinns don’t perform necromancy, Geralt, surely you know that.”_

_“Not necromancy,” he grunts back. “Just a -” Geralt grits his teeth, closes his pack with jerky movements. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going.”_

_He’d heard rumors of a djinn in an abandoned temple in Temeria. If he hurries, Roach can get them there in a week’s time._

_Yennefer settles a palm on his chest. “Geralt, you’re not thinking straight. I know you’re grieving. We’re_ all _grieving,” she says. The thumb of her other hand skims lightly over the onyx ring on her index finger, tracing over the intricate pattern and the blood red jewel encrusted atop it. A gift from Jaskier. “But you can’t possibly -”_

_“I’ll use one of the wishes for us,” Geralt cuts in unthinkingly. He can’t afford to be talked out of this. He won’t. Yennefer’s expression changes and he plows on, “to break our bond.”_

_“Don’t,” the sorceress spits out with more venom than Geralt’s heard in a long time. “Don’t manipulate me this way, Geralt.”_

_“I’m not, Yen. I’ll do it.”_

_“And what if your wish for Jaskier fails? What then?”_

It won’t _, he thinks. Out loud, the witcher replies, “My wish for Jaskier will be last. The bond will be first. The second -” he hesitates. “The second will be for Ciri.”_

_The temperature in the room dips considerably. Yennefer removes her hand from Geralt’s chest. “Just what are you planning to wish for exactly, Geralt?” she whispers. His nostrils flare slightly. He’d never be able to tell just by looking, but as he scents the air he detects it - right there, among the ever-present mix of lilac and gooseberries - a faint whiff of fear._

_Geralt swings his pack over his shoulder. “Take care of Ciri,” he says. Geralt leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Yennefer’s cheek, nose pressed into her waves of ebony hair. He smells lilac and gooseberries, and goes._

_Roach is subdued as they ride towards Temeria, but steady and as quick and nimble as she’s ever been. They make it to the abandoned temple in six days’ time. Geralt gives Roach water, carrots, and apple slices, and mumbles short words of praise as he pets her. He lets her wander into a field to graze and makes his way inside the ruins._

_Thick vines and rotting branches have choked up the stone and mortar inside the temple, and it smells faintly of moss and mildew. The floor is littered with dirt and debris and pine needles._

_It gets progressively darker the deeper he goes. Geralt concentrates and wills his pupils to dilate, adjusting to the darkness._

_He finds the amphora in what must’ve been the high priestess’s prayer room once upon a time._

_The jar is metal and faintly rusted, so unlike the potted amphora he’d fished from the lake in Rinde all those years ago. Geralt picks it up carefully, fingers tracing the pattern of the djinn’s sign on the rusted lid. He closes his eyes briefly, sees Jaskier’s eyes and his bright smile beneath his lids, and takes a quick, steadying breath before he uncorks the amphora._

_Just like last time, nothing happens for a moment, but then Geralt stiffens when he senses a surge of magic in the air. Billowing dark smoke curls in front of him, and he spies the outline of a clawed hand._

_Geralt’s grip on the lid tightens. “Three wishes,” he rumbles._

_A mangled, reedy voice that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge responds. “So it is what you are owed, master.”_

_Djinns are notorious tricksters. Geralt need only remember Rinde and Jaskier’s swollen throat. He’s going to need a stronger grasp on words than he’s ever had._

_“I wish for you to undo a wish granted to me from another djinn. It bonded my fate to the sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg. I need the bond broken so that only our own emotions and affections for each other remain.”_

_The smell of sulfur and ozone in the air is almost oppressive. There’s a faint hum, and Geralt feels it, when his tether to Yennefer breaks. Like a string pulled taut it snaps. Geralt exhales sharply, his shoulders nearly by his ears._

_“My second wish,” he rasps, chest working like bellows, trying to push through the awful burning smell, “is for my Child Surprise.”_

_“I cannot undo a bond of Destiny, master,” the djinn informs him. “That is beyond magic.”_

_Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t need you to undo it.”_

_He makes his wish quickly. The whole time, Ciri is embedded in his mind, in his bones, in his very soul. He thinks of her and only her. He needs her to be okay so badly._

_“It is done, master,” says the djinn. “And for your last wish?”_

_Geralt swallows. His knuckles have gone as white as bone. “I want another chance. With my bard. Julian Alfred Pankratz. He - he isn’t of this life anymore. I need another. Another life. I want to do it right.”_

_Nothing happens. Geralt thinks he glimpses two glinting spheres in the smoke and snaps, “Well?”_

_“You were afraid,” the djinn comments almost idly. “And your fear hurt him. If you do not learn to let go of your fear, he will hurt again.”_

_“What do you mean?” Geralt asks. “Is my wish granted?”_

_“You will have what you wish for, master. You will receive another chance at loving your bard. He will remember what you will not.”_

_“I don’t - I don’t understand. What won’t I remember?”_

_“Bravery is not the absence of fear, but the desire to overcome it. Be brave, Geralt of Rivia, and you will be rewarded. Remain afraid, and you will be doomed to relive your worst mistake.”_

_Before Geralt can open his mouth, the djinn disappears and the room fills with a heavy, silvery smoke. His eyelids start to grow heavy._

_He drops the amphora and it shatters. The sign clatters to the floor and rolls away._

_Realization that the djinn has twisted his words hits Geralt right as his world goes dark._

***

Geralt shoots up from his bed, panicked and heaving shuddering breaths. His heart is beating so hard it’s hurting his rib cage. There’s sweat dampening his brow and curling the hair at the back of his neck.

Unthinkingly, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, scrolls through his contacts, and presses the call button.

His heartbeat doesn’t settle until he hears Jaskier mumble a sleepy, “Geralt?” on the other end.

“You’re okay,” Geralt exhales, and his voice sounds too strangled, too pained, too broken, even to his own ears.

“I’m okay,” Jaskier replies, suddenly more alert. “Why? What’s wrong, Geralt?”

Geralt feels himself flush with shame. He overreacted. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ “It’s nothing. I’m sorry for calling you at,” he quickly checks the clock on his phone and winces, “three in the morning.”

“It didn’t sound like it was nothing. And I’m up now, so you might as well tell me,” Jaskier murmurs. Then, as if he can read Geralt’s mind, he reminds him. “No more pushing me away, remember? I’m here. I won’t judge.”

Geralt huffs, low and weak, fingers knotting into his comforter. “I - I keep dreaming of you dying,” he says eventually, the words like glass in his throat. “It feels so real. But -”

He must stay quiet for too long, trying desperately to gather his thoughts, because Jaskier prompts gently, “but?”

“It wasn’t - it isn’t - you from this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re always somewhere else. The past.” Geralt closes his eyes. Jesus, he sounds so stupid. “In some of them, I have two swords. You wear this…this _ridiculous_ jacket with puffed up sleeves,” he laughs wetly.

Jaskier remains uncharacteristically quiet. Geralt grips his phone tighter.

“It’s my fault. Every single time, it’s my fault. I try to save you, and I can’t. There was so much blood. I can still feel it, on my fingers -”

“Hey, hey, Geralt, I’m fine, I’m _fine_ ,” Jaskier cuts in with quiet ardor. His voice filters calm and clear and beautifully strong through Geralt’s cell. “I’m right here, I’m with you, I’m _alive_.”

“Jaskier I -” _I need you. I love you. I’m scared,_ “don’t want to lose you.”

“You never will. I’ll always be with you. In this life and the next,” Jaskier promises. Geralt sucks in a sharp breath, his mind simultaneously coming to a screeching halt and working overtime.

_In this life and the next._

Jaskier stays with him on the phone until Geralt falls asleep, but the words echo in his brain long after he closes his eyes. Like his mind is assembling a puzzle and he only needs a couple more pieces to see the full picture.

***

The line to the theatre is already long by the time they get there. Geralt fiddles awkwardly with the bow tie around his neck, feeling ridiculous. “Remind me again why we dressed up?” he mutters, taking his place in line.

“Because it’ll make your boyfriend happy,” says Yennefer and swats at his hand, her beaded gown glinting in the streetlight. “Stop messing with that.”

Geralt glares at her. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Renfri says gleefully, looking positively dashing in her burgundy suit. Her hair is slicked back into a low ponytail.

Geralt tucks his head and doesn’t say anything. Instead, his fingers start to lightly trace the contours of the box that’s currently burning a hole in his pocket.

The line moves quickly, thank fuck, and they’re soon inside the sprawling theatre. Geralt wanders over to the concession bar with Eskel and buys overpriced cocktails and snacks for their crew.

Lambert lets out a low whistle when they get to their seats. “Jask really hooked us up, huh?”

“Trust him not to do this shit halfway,” Renfri says, settling with a happy hum into the plush velvet.

Their view of the stage is perfect. Close enough to be able to see the expressions on the actors’ faces, but far enough they don’t have to crane their necks to enjoy the show. Geralt hides a smile behind a sip of Jack and Coke.

The lights soon go dim. Geralt’s heart starts to race when swelling, orchestral music starts to play and the curtains pull back to reveal a quaint uptown neighborhood.

The show is good. Really good. Geralt surprisingly finds himself enjoying the story and the songs. Jaskier is stunning, of course. All of his normal clumsiness is gone; he moves confidently and with rhythm, belting out lyrics at the top of his lungs. Geralt can’t take his eyes off of him.

Intermission comes and goes. When the curtains reopen, it’s to Jaskier with a guitar slung over his shoulders. He’s traded in his jeans and button-up for dark corduroys, a white shirt, and glittering suspenders.

Geralt’s breath catches.

It’s a sweet, flirty ballad. Jaskier saunters around the stage as he serenades a fellow actress and the audience. The entire room feels like it’s snared in a spell.

Right before Geralt’s eyes, the guitar starts to change shape; becomes smaller and rounder. The neck shortens, the wood darkens. Geralt blinks repeatedly, dazed, but Jaskier’s corduroy pants turn into fine gold trousers. A matching gold jacket with delicate embroidery and patterned shoulders replaces the glittery suspenders and shirt.

Geralt inhales sharply, and on the next breath, the stage melts away and becomes an ornate grand hall. Geralt glances down at himself and he’s no longer in a fancy suit, but wearing a navy jacket embroidered with delicate buttercups. Renfri’s no longer to his side. He’s never seen the regal, imposing woman that’s taken her place ever before, but his mind supplies the name _Calanthe_ anyways.

He’s been here. In this moment. He’s seen this - he’s _lived_ this.

_“O fishmonger, o fishmonger, come quell your daughter’s hunger…”_

All of Jaskier’s odd, even insane remarks, starts to play in a messy reel in Geralt’s head. The last pieces of the puzzle slot together.

_“That sounds like a song.”_

_“You didn’t like it the first time either.”_

_“I’m not letting you do this to us again.”_

He knows what the full picture is.

The rest of the show goes by in a daze. “Come on,” Yennefer says, dragging him to his feet. “We’re going backstage.”

It occurs to Geralt that he could bolt. He could walk away, right this second, and no one would stop him.

They duck into a darkened hallway. There’s a ringing in Geralt’s ears. His throat is dry.

“Ah, there you guys are!”

Jaskier’s face is more flushed than it usually is, and there’s beads of sweat on his brow and curling his hair. The grin on his face is blinding. He bounds up to them excitedly. “Look at all of you! Dressed up for little old _moi_? You shouldn’t have.”

“Are you sure?” Yennefer says wryly.

Jaskier sniffs. “Don’t call me out like this. Anyway! What did you think?”

The backstage area is remarkably plain. There’s only a few chairs and a couch that’s definitely seen better days. One of the lights is flickering. But Geralt only sees sky blue eyes and know he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

Before he can help himself, Geralt says, “Three words or less?”

“Only way I like my feedback, mister.”

Geralt is very conscious of his friends being _right fucking there_. Renfri, he suspects, will probably never let him live this down. Good. He squares his shoulders. Makes a decision. Takes a leap.

“I loved it.”

***

Geralt waits until he and Jaskier are alone before giving him the gift. “I got you something,” he mumbles, the night breeze cooling his heated face.

They’re sitting on the roof of the bar. The sky is cloudy, but the moon is a bright, glowing crescent. Jaskier turns towards him with poorly concealed curiosity and gets drenched in moonlight. “Oh? What is it?”

“Here,” Geralt says before he loses his nerve. He thrusts the poorly wrapped box into Jaskier’s hands and fights the urge to fidget. “Open it.”

Jaskier’s nimble fingers start tearing into the wrapping paper enthusiastically. Bits of colorful polka-dotted scraps fall between them. “Don’t have to tell me twice.” The box is a canary yellow. Jaskier takes the lid off carefully. There’s a low and quick intake of breath. Geralt knows without seeing that Jaskier’s eyes are wide.

“Oh,” says Jaskier. “ _Oh_.”

With trembling fingers, he fishes the brooch out of the box, thumbing through the bumps and ridges of the wolf’s head and the crown of buttercups reverently. There’s a pronounced silence. “You remembered,” Jaskier whispers. “I didn’t even know you were listening.” He appears to be holding in a whimper. His shoulders are shaking.

Geralt frowns, worried. “You don’t like it?”

“What?” Jaskier looks up sharply. “No - oh my god, you sweet, beautiful, idiot man, I _love_ it.” He pins it to his shirt firmly before launching himself in Geralt’s arms. Geralt thinks he hears sniffling and wraps his arms tightly around Jaskier. The smell of coconut is everywhere and Gerlat inhales deep, soothing lungfuls.

“I can’t believe you got it for me,” Jaskier murmurs. He’s tapping his index finger delicately on Geralt’s chest bone. “It must’ve cost you a fortune.”

“I wanted to do something nice for you.” Jaskier moves a little in his arms so they’re face to face. He looks utterly beautiful like this. Geralt brings a hand to cradle Jaskier’s jaw. He’s terrified out of his skin, but he wants so badly to be brave. “The brooch - it reminded you of us, didn’t it?”

Jaskier’s eyes go round. “I - how - you - you -”

“You were singing during your show and I - I remembered court. Remembered _us_ ,” says Geralt.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, voice gone brittle. There are tears falling freely down his face.

“I want to do it right this time,” Geralt says. “I want to take this leap. Teach me. Please.”

“ _Sweetheart._ ” Jaskier cups Geralt’s face between his hands. Geralt feels every single, wonderful indent of Jaskier’s rings. “I’m here. I’ll _always_ be here. Ask me whatever you want. I have you, I swear.”

Geralt nods slowly, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “When - do you know from the start?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “No, no, no. Not really, at least. Things always feel a little off but it’s not until I _meet_ you that everything comes back.”

“You look for me.”

“I look for _something_. It isn’t until I meet you that I know it was you I was looking for. And you make sure I find you - look at the name of your bar. That was your soul - calling out to me. Making sure I found you.”

Geralt closes his eyes. “You keep...you keep loving me. Even when I push you away.”

“ _Of course_ I do,” Jaskier says tightly. His fingers wind themselves in Geralt’s hair, pulling, grounding. “There’s no one else for me. You are worth every bit of love I have in my body, Geralt. I don’t care how many lives we need to live through before you believe it.”

Something in Geralt splinters and he makes a gut-punched sound. His fingers land on Jaskier’s waist and he squeezes. “I love you,” he chokes out, eyes closed.

“Be brave for me again, darling. Ask me for what you want.”

“I - can I kiss you?”

Jaskier’s answering smile is blinding. “Please.”

Geralt crosses the space between them slowly and finally, blessedly, presses his lips to Jaskier’s. Past the point of no return. Taking a leap.

Everything blurs. Between one breath and the next, they find themselves back in Geralt’s apartment, pushing into it while still entangled in each other, Jaskier’s fingers wound tightly in Geralt’s hair.

Geralt pushes Jaskier down to the bed as gently as he dares, caging the body beneath him with his own, his mouth on Jaskier’s neck.

“Oh, _darling_.” Jaskier chokes on a breath with his head thrown back. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, his right hand fisting tightly into the bedsheet beside Jaskier’s head. Under his fingers, the sheet suddenly turns into a dingy straw mattress in a nameless inn; into a rotted piece of wood of an old, but well-beloved theatre; into dewy grass under a canopy of stars, the sounds of piano and saxophone and soulful jazz in the background.

Geralt shudders, overwhelmed with emotion. He fits his palm to Jaskier’s hip bone, a grounding touch that throws him back into this time, this moment, where he belongs.

“You see it too,” Jaskier whispers, half-awed. His blue eyes are bright with unshed tears. Geralt nods mutely, surging back down to kiss Jaskier.

“Yes. It’s -”

“Beautiful, right? The lives we’ve had. Everything we’ve shared. Our love for each other.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmurs against the plane of Jaskier’s naked stomach, “I’m sorry I was scared to love you how you deserved.”

“Hey no. None of that,” says Jaskier, bringing Geralt back up to look at him. “I knew you would eventually, darling. I knew it. I was going to love you through all of it, you hear me Geralt? No matter how long it took. You’re the only one for me. In this life and the next.”

Geralt turns one of Jaskier’s palms in his hand and kisses it. “In this life,” he promises. He rids Jaskier of his shirt while Jaskier undos the buttons of his pants.

There are no more words. There don’t need to be. They have time for those later. Right now, Geralt just winds trembling fingers with Jaskier’s and lets himself be swept away in heat and touch and kisses.

“ _Geralt_ -” Jaskier gasps out, and Geralt swallows it with another kiss as they tumble over the edge. Together.

***

Geralt wakes up the next day with brown hair tickling his chin and the smell of coconut in his nose. Jaskier’s already awake. He can tell by the pattern of his breathing. Just a tad hyperactive, just like Jaskier himself.

“Morning,” he rumbles, voice rough with sleep. He threads a hand through that brown hair. Part of Geralt still can’t believe he gets to have this.

Jaskier looks up, blue eyes alight. “Morning,” he replies, dragging himself over Geralt to kiss him. It’s lazy and messy with just a tiny bit of tongue. It’s perfect.

“So mister bartender,” says Jaskier with a grin once they break apart, stretching his arms up high, exposing a taut stomach and a bare chest covered in fine, downy hair. “Anything in particular you’d like to do today?”

There are so many things that can go wrong. Geralt’s human now. Has been for many lives now. He’s powerless to a good many things. He doesn’t know if he’s broken the djinn’s curse. He doesn’t know what the future looks like.

He knows who he wants though. He knows he loves and is loved. He knows he wants to try. He knows he can be brave. That’s enough.

Geralt smiles, and opens his mouth to take a leap.

**Author's Note:**

> The dog meme Jaskier sends Geralt is a real thing I saw on Reddit. [You too can giggle with us.](https://www.reddit.com/r/aww/comments/7ujnuh/my_dog_thinks_he_has_to_wait_in_line_for_a_treat/)
> 
> For those who might not be sure, a Cinnamon Toast Crunch is an actual drink (write what you know, fellas.) It’s Rumchata mixed with Fireball. Yes, I firmly believe modern Jask would be into this devil shot. 
> 
> Come and say hi/ask me questions on [Tumblr](https://marvelousmaize.tumblr.com) if you’d like!


End file.
